


Dig

by AceofSpeight



Series: The Neighborhood [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bullying, Heavy stuff in here yall, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prequel, Punk!keith, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drinking, Veteran Shiro (Voltron), also Cirac is a gem u dont know him yet but u will, broganes, but that's how you learn i guess, but the abuse/suicide tag aint no joke, delinquent!keith, do i know what whump actually means?, getting real in the tags here, not really - Freeform, oh shit i forgot, pre-klance, promise ill make u laugh, there is so much whump in here like these boys all got Problems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-05-25 16:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14981168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceofSpeight/pseuds/AceofSpeight
Summary: Shiro had served his country, okay? He'd lost an arm and his marbles and he'd had enough.Unluckily right before he's set to clock out, he becomes the legal guardian of some long-distant delinquent cousin who has every intention of driving Shiro insane.Andunluckily for his cousin, Shiro isn't ready to give up on him just yet.





	1. That's All Right, Mama

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this for a fucking year just—just HAVE IT already. And scream if you want updates. 
> 
>  
> 
> _LOUDLY._

He’d kill himself tomorrow, after lunch.

“Things are going much better,” he told the man in front him, his therapist. The guy nodded, encouraging Shiro to talk some more.

Was he going to have a big last meal? Maybe not. Maybe he’d just have breakfast. Maybe he’d have breakfast twice. Why the fuck not? It would be his last day after all, that had to count for some special treatment.

“The medication helps.” He’d stopped taking them months ago. “Make me a bit sleepy,” understatement, “but otherwise I feel. Good.”

Good enough to plan a pancake-palooza before he blew his brains out. Who said he wasn’t a thorough planner? He might even buy blueberries for the occasion.

“Last time you were here you were feeling down,” said the man. His name didn’t really matter to Shiro anymore, if it had at all, to be honest. “Do you still feel that way? You mentioned feeling isolated.”

Like he was cuddling with a volleyball on an island. Isolated. Sure, that was one way to describe how he felt. Walking corpse was another.

“I think I’ve realized everything I have to offer people,” Shiro answered.

Nothing.

“And I think I know what to do to achieve...being my best self.”

Blam! Now cue the image of brains splattering all over the bathroom tiles. Shiro tried not to laugh out loud at the image, instead he bit his lip and nodded, smiling genuinely at his therapist. He ignored the feeling of open vulnerability left by an unguarded right side. Who needed two arms anyway.

His therapist returned the smile.

 

* * *

 

“I mean, it could totally be worse,” Imaginary Lance said, plopping down on the bed before him and tossing a grape into his mouth. Why in his imagination Lance was eating grapes, Keith had no idea. Must’ve been related to the Refinery Incident. Broken plates and ten pounds of grapes. Now that was a good night. “I mean, they could be like, _touching_ you, you know?”

Imaginary Lance popped another grape in his mouth. “Count your blessings.”

Keith scoffed, adjusting his wrists above his head. His arms were beginning to stop hurting and now they were just numb. But fuck if he was crying Uncle. “Oh fuck off, like you’d know anything about it.”

Lance gave him a look. “Um, Catholic? Like, I live in perpetual fear that some priest is going to grab my gorgeous ass.”

Keith couldn’t stop the short burst of laughter. He paid for it.

 

* * *

 

Maybe he’d just do it tonight. There was something comforting about killing yourself in the comfort of darkness. The thought of killing himself in broad daylight felt weird, especially knowing daytime soaps were going on.

The lady next door probably wouldn’t even hear the pop go off if he did it during Por Ella Soy Eva.

But then, Shiro also didn’t want to die right now, when he was a fucking mess on the floor. He could feel how ridiculous he looked, curling on his side next to the bed, not on it. The coolness of the floor felt good against his hot, sweating skin, but his teeth couldn’t stop chattering.

One fucking siren, that’s all that took to turn Takashi Shirogane of the 84th regiment Echo Company into a sniveling ball of shit on the floor.

Shiro jerked, an uncontrollable reaction when he heard an alarm go off. He ended up smashing his head into the nightstand table and a glass bottle crashed onto his head. Shiro hardly felt the pain. He lifted his hand to his forehead, rubbing the spot more out of reaction than any concern.

When he looked at his hand and saw blood, he passed out cold.

When he woke up minutes, seconds, hours later? the alarm turned out to just be his oven timer. He’d burned his last fucking dinner.

 

* * *

 

“But like, if you _had_ to,” Imaginary Lance said.

Keith rubbed his stomach, trying to ease the gnawing hunger that’d been growing for three days. “Fuck Bill Clinton, Marry Hillary Clinton, Kill Socks.”

“You’d kill a cat?” Lance asked, wide blue eyes staring at him from somewhere above the table. Keith had realized his head was lying down now, so he shouldn’t be seeing Lance when he was actually staring at the front of the trailer. “That’s fucking cold dude.”

“Well I sure as hell am not going to marry a cat,” he retorted.

“What’s wrong with marrying a cat? I figured you’d like that. Temperamental, loners, lots of stupid hair, sound like anyone I know?” Lance tapped his chin and hummed in mock introspection.

Keith rolled his eyes and tried not to dry heave as another wave of stench hit him. He couldn’t tell if it was him or if they were cooking again.

“Hillary’s got the dough,” Keith explained. “I’d rather be rich and married to a chick than poor and stuck with a fucking cat.”

When Keith looked back up, Imaginary Lance had disappeared. Unfortunately, they were still there.

 

* * *

 

Shiro stabbed at his burned lasagna with a fork, repeatedly. He kept trying to remember where he’d gotten the fork. He couldn’t remember and it was bugging the shit out of him. He only had two. How the fuck could he not remember where he’d gotten the fork?

He threw it across the room. Problem solved.

He threw the lasagna too, because fuck lasagna.

 

* * *

 

“Well what’re you waiting for then?” Imaginary Lance grinned, and Keith couldn’t almost feel the warmth of the hand that wasn’t there pressing into his shoulder. “Follow it.”

“Follow it?” Keith said. He looked up from the roof of the trailer, where he’d finally managed to sneak out through the overhead opening. He stared out at the meteors flashing by. They were heading west, toward the ocean. It’d been awhile since he’d seen the ocean, he thought to himself.

He grinned. “Wanna make a bet?”

 

* * *

 

Shiro woke up in the middle of the night with a crappy hangover. It hadn’t been from drinking, just from the nasty cut he’d gotten from the beer bottle. Shiro laughed out loud to himself at the irony. Matt would’ve laughed too. He wondered where he was, then shook out his head. He knew where he was.

Dead.

Wait. Was he? So many people were dead, he couldn’t keep track anymore.

Shiro went back to bed, still with an unclean wound on his head. He just couldn’t stand to look at the blood.

Or his face.

 

* * *

 

Imaginary Lance whooped beside him. “Call another one! Get them all here! Make history you crazy motherfucker!” He hooted into the open window, his short hair blowing back in waves and Keith laughed, and called another one.

“Channel Five news?” he asked. “Yeah I got a story for you.”

He flew past another set of cars on the 580 and the sound of their honking and the tiny Datsun skidding toward the ocean almost drowned out the voice of the reporter.

Keith stomped on the gas harder, but his foot was already pressed to the floor.

 

* * *

 

Shiro squinted as he sat on the roof of his house, staring at the rising sun. It taken what felt like years to get up here with one arm, but it’d actually been worth it. He could see shooting stars flashing in the early-morning sky.

It looked amazing. The view overlooked the whole strait, the backdrop of the hills were a light green, tinted gold in the growing sunlight. Stars shot overhead and even the moon was out. It was like he was getting a whole view of the cosmos just from his rooftop.

As far as last mornings went, Shiro thought as he rested his cheek in his left hand, it was a pretty good one.

 

* * *

 

Keith dipped his toes into the water. It wasn’t very clean, and mud was already getting his jeans into an unwearable state, but when he looked around him, at the cars stopped and people staring, filming him as he traipsed through the marsh, he didn’t really give a fuck.

Imaginary Lance wasn’t there. But maybe the real one was watching from behind a computer screen. Maybe Lance was still right there with him.

“Tell child services to go fuck themselves!” Keith shouted from the bay. He flipped off the people watching him and dashed back into the ocean while the cops rushed him.

 

* * *

 

12:32.

Should he just do it now? Did a half hour mean anything? Not in the scheme of things, no. He looked down at the table, where the gun and his dog tags lay in front of him. He wasn’t in uniform, because he didn’t want Matt to think it was his fault.

It wasn’t. Shiro was just.

Tired.

He picked up the gun and looked at the time. 12:37.

Time was just a social construct, he told himself as he lifted the gun to his temple. He kissed his dog tags and took in a deep breath, then let it out as a sigh.

Funny, he thought. He figured he’d feel more relieved than this. Instead he just felt.

Anxious.

Well, Life, Shiro thought, his final one. It’s been shitty while it lasted.

The phone rang.

 

* * *

 

“—total neglect, don’t even get me started on the fucking markings. The visible ones will clean you of breakfast.”

Keith rolled his eyes. The dark bruises around his wrists just looked like shadows with the cuffs he was wearing. He turned his head to look over at Lance, to listen to him tell some shitty joke.

He wasn’t there.

“—found an actual relative. Let me check if the number is still active, see if he’d be fit. We can’t send him back there.”

Sure you can, Keith said, closing his eyes and slamming the back of his head against the wall, repeatedly. Just give him the car back and he’d drive himself, _definitely_ , he taunted sarcastically.

Keith inhaled and he smelled dirt, feeling satisfied. It was from his muddy jeans, and it was stinking up the police precinct. It was the little things that kept him going.

If he got back in the car it’d only be another 30 minutes to go where he really wanted to go. Keith smirked. Twenty minutes, if he were driving.

“Hello? Yes I’m looking for—”

 

* * *

 

“Yeah that’s me,” Shiro said, eyeing his hand piece. He meant to hang the phone right up, the noise had been super fucking irritating and it had been killing his suicide vibe. Ha, Shiro chuckled weakly.

“Hi, I’m really sorry to bother you,” it was a woman, which was why Shiro wasn’t hanging up. She sounded tired, and sincere, and hanging up on a lady was just rude in his book. “But we have your cousin here.”

Shiro covered his pistol with his whole hand. Only the sight peaked out from under his fingers.

“That’s not possible,” Shiro answered. “You have the wrong guy. I don’t have any cousins.”

“It’s an obscure relation, we just found it within the last six months. He’s been living in another foster home, but—“ she swallowed and the click of her throat was audible over the line. “It’s not a safe environment. We need him in a safe home, and with this new information, you are the closest and fittest relation to take care of him.”

“Whoa wait,” Shiro said. His mind was reeling and his anxiety was replaced by, well, more anxiety. “Take care of a kid? There’s no way, I mean, don’t you need qualifications for that?”

The woman let out a breath that half sounded like laughter. “Wouldn’t that be grand. Sir,” Shiro looked out the window. The sun turned the entire windowpane white, and it blinded him for a moment before he looked past the brightness. “You are a decorated war veteran, you’ve served your country. I am literally no one to you, but I am _begging_ you to do what you do best, and take care of this kid.”

Shiro watched a squirrel hop out of his mulberry tree and onto the fence. It went into the yard next door and Shiro heard a shot.

He couldn’t move.

“He needs you, more than anyone right now.”

Shiro let out the breath he was holding, and felt himself return to earth. The phone was nearly slipping out of his sweaty hand, and he parted his chapped lips.

“What do I need to do?”

The woman responded easily. “Don’t go anywhere,” she instructed firmly. “We’ll come to you.” She hung up.

Shiro looked at the phone. He looked at the pistol.

He put the pistol away.

He held onto the phone.

 

* * *

 

Keith hated being in the passenger seat, it felt worse than being locked up in juvie, and he _hated_ juvie. There was nothing worse than being surrounded by idiots who thought they were better than you just because they were more fucked up than you.

Then again, Keith had been able to hold his own just fine.

The woman was talking but he wasn’t really listening. She looked too professional, like she’d just gotten the job. If she had Keith as one of her cases, he’d get her in a baggy sweater and ripped jeans in no time.

She was talking about some cousin of his they’d found, like ten times removed on his mother’s side. Some distant relation of his had apparently been Japanese. His Korean parents were rolling over in their graves right now.

Keith tapped his forehead to the window, again and again. He could feel the woman’s eyes on the back of his head and it made him want to laugh. Like, she thought this was fucked up? As far as Keith was concerned invoking physical pain was a damn hobby.

When Keith found out where they were going, his ears perked up automatically.

“North bay?” he asked. She looked at him, startled. Keith realized he hadn’t said a word to her the entire day, so opening his mouth now and speaking probably was a cause for surprise.

“Yes,” she said and turned back to the road. She took a sharp right and drove up a small hill, heading toward a suburb. Yawn, Keith thought as he rolled his eyes. There was a nice park to his left with half a basketball court, and Keith wondered how soon the police would arrive if he set it on fire.

The basketball hoop, not the park. Jesus, he wasn’t a fucking psychopath.

“I’ll be back again in a few days with your belongings, and to check up on the situation. If anything, _anything_ , is going on that you need to talk to me about, you call me, okay?”

Keith breathed on the window, fogging up the glass with his breath. He drew a dick with some massive pubic hair. “Whatever you need to do to sleep at night, lady,” he responded, drawing some cum coming out the tip.

She took a left into a court, and then pulled into a driveway of the smallest house.

Keith looked at the cigarette ridden front yard and peeling green paint of the house, and sighed.

Round 24.

 

* * *

 

Shiro opened the door and a slight kid with notable hair and a deep frown stared at him from the porch. They hardly looked alike.

He looked younger than 17.

 

* * *

 

Keith looked at the man in front of him, dark bags under his eyes and a fresh cut peeking out from behind his white bangs.

He looked older than 23.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As seems to be the custom, here's the start of a mood playlist.
> 
> Shiro's opening scene: ["That's All Right Mama"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NmopYuF4BzY) by Elvis Presley
> 
> Shiro vs. Lasagna: ["Elevator Operator"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQHwSQrRJns) by Cortney Barnet
> 
> Keith's car chase: [ "Bloodstains"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QR8UcVruNgE) by Agent Orange


	2. The Bitch is Back

Thank god Shiro had managed to find and clean up the lasagna from the previous night. The kitchen was still kind of a mess and he kept altering his hair self-consciously, trying to cover up the cut from the night before.

He didn’t know why, but he wanted to look presentable. It wasn’t every day after all the government called him up to care for some cousin he had no idea existed.

The lady hardly stayed for ten minutes, giving the house a quick precursory look.

“Since you’re military and have no outstanding arrests you’ve already been cleared as fit to care for him,” she explained. “You’ll still be compensated by the state, but only until he’s emancipated, which is only a few months away.”

The kid in question moved from the door to the couch. He dropped into it and picked up the remote, turning on the TV and instantly changing the channel. Again and again.

“What um,” Shiro began, then had to clear his throat. “What happens when he’s emancipated?”

The woman stood eerily still. “He can stay in foster care until he’s 21,” she explained. “Or he can leave when he turns 18.” She looked over at the kid, her lips a thin line. “In a situation like this, he’ll probably leave earlier rather than later.”

Shiro nodded. The woman gave him her card, and told him to call him if he needed her, as she was his new caseworker. The paperwork would be filed and completed within a month, and he’d get a check to pay for the kid’s food and clothes. Any medical bill he could send directly to her.

She left.

Shiro stood in the kitchen and looked out into the living room, clenching his fist and staring at the back of the kid’s head.

What the hell had he just gotten himself into?

 

* * *

 

Keith was watching a particularly graphic video on Animal Planet of a lion eating a zebra. Blood covered the weeds and grassy environment around the kill, and Keith wondered just how much a dude got paid to sit there in the grass yards away to film this shit.

His “cousin” finally sat down next to him. Keith ignored the instinct telling him to move away, and stood his ground. He wasn’t going to be intimidated by some one-armed freak, some Good Boy soldier. Keith was made of thicker stuff.

“So,” the guy said. Keith didn’t look over, he just turned the volume up. The guy cleared his throat awkwardly. “Um, this is embarrassing, but I kind of forgot your name, in the—“ the guy raised his arm up, gesturing around him, “—mess of all this. Um. I’m Shiro.”

He held out his left hand, and Keith looked at it. It had several scars and scrap he’s on it and was plenty calloused. Having seen the state of the yard, Keith could guess he hadn’t gotten them from gardening. His entire arm was thicker than Keith’s waist, and if he’d wanted to, he’d probably be able to throw him across the room easily with just that one arm.

Keith wasn’t impressed.

“I never asked,” Keith said. “Which room is mine?”

Shiro blinked. “Um, you’ve got two to choose from, but only one has a bed. I can uh, move it, though.” Keith stood and Shiro did the same. He was half a head taller than him and exuded calm authority.

Keith still wasn’t impressed.

“The left or the right, take your—“ Keith entered the one to the right, the one with the large window overlooking the front lawn. Easier escape that way, he figured, for when shit went down eventually. “—Pick,” he finished lamely, right as Keith shut the door in his face.

 

* * *

 

Shiro was half sure all of this was just some fucked up dream.

Had he actually gone through with it and shot himself, and this was the other side? Some alternate reality where he had to take care of some punk relative and where everything in the room still smelled faintly of mozzarella and tomato sauce?

This isn’t exactly what he had in mind when he’d resolved to get some fucking rest from it all.

Now he was a goddamn parent of a kid who didn’t want to be parented. Which, fair. The kid was 17, he probably didn’t want to be told what to do. Shiro hadn’t wanted to be told what to do at his age, in fact, he couldn’t think of a single teenager in the world who liked being treated like a kid.

So. Maybe that was his answer.

Shiro had meandered into the garage somehow, and had begun making a mess of the half-forgotten and abandoned boxes he’d as of until a few minutes ago never unpacked. He hadn’t been in the house for long, just a few months really, but other than his clothes and some bathroom and kitchen essentials, everything else he owned had stayed hidden away from sight in the garage.

Shiro threw out his six years of military training and started ransacking the boxes.

If Shiro didn’t want to be a guardian, or parental figure, whatever, and Keith clearly wanted to be left alone, then why didn’t Shiro just let things lie then? Why not just…let Keith take care of himself? Shiro would give him food, and shelter and whatever else he needed to live comfortably of course, but actual guidance? What could Shiro possibly contribute?

Shiro had his own beasts. His own home life had been a mess, so much so he’d enlisted in the army in the lowest rank before he was even of age, treated like scum on the bottom of a shoe and lesser besides, and it’d been a damn _improvement_.

Shiro couldn’t guide Keith towards responsible living. Hell, a couple hours ago he’d held a pistol to his head and said his goodbyes to the world. That wasn’t exactly someone who inspired others to live life to “be the best they could be” or whatever.

Besides Shiro…was tired. Still. There’s just no way he could do the job right. So why try?

Shiro dropped a box and it nearly landed on his foot. It was heavy and he’d been unable to successfully hold it up with his one arm, so on the ground it went. Shiro kicked it and it barely budged. Having forgotten what was inside, he opened the soft cardboard top pieces and peered inside, rolling his eyes when of course he was greeted with his old gym equipment.

Like he needed it now.

He riffled through the gear, nearly scoffing at the _pair_ of boxing gloves, the jump rope, the hand weights…

Hmm. Hand weights. Shiro grabbed one and strapped it to his hand, using his mouth to tighten and roll on the velcro around his wrist. He wiggled his fingers and jabbed his arm out a few times, getting his hand used to the extra weight resting on the broad part of his hand below the knuckles.

Shiro looked back down into the box, and saw a couple ankle weights. He frowned.

He took one out and held it up in front of him. Talking a self-conscious look around, and seeing no one, he then lifted out his left stub, and wrapped the ankle weight around it. He worked slowly, and his arm shook slightly when he held it up, as it was unused to extra weight or use. Shiro hadn’t really been able to even look at it much after the surgery, and that’d been six months ago.

He’d stopped going to the physical therapy sessions, and it showed in his arm’s weakness. Shiro finally managed to tighten the ankle weight around the arm, tight enough it didn’t fall when he let the short upper arm drop to his side. Shiro lifted it up again and felt a slight cramp on his bicep. But instead of feeling discouraged, Shiro continued to raise and lower the arm, doing a strange bird-like motion to flex and release his arm’s muscles.

He wasn’t able to last very long, only a short minute or so before he could feel sweat beading against this temple and his arm shook alarmingly hard. Shiro finally stopped and took a few breaths. He took off both weights, from his arm and from his hand, but didn’t put them back in the box.

He grabbed a few more pieces, holding them in the crook of his right arm, and decided to take them to his room. Might as well let them breathe out of the box, even if he never used them again. Lots of people did that, he reasoned, had gym equipment in their room they hardly used. Shiro wouldn’t even notice it.

On the way back to his room, Shiro paused outside Keith’s new door, hesitating. He stared at the wood with furrowed eyebrows, but the door didn’t answer the question he wanted to be given to him.

Shiro went into his room and ended up doing some wall pushups.

Might as well, he told himself, nearly smiling when sweat dripped down his back comfortingly, almost achingly similar to how it’d been back in Iraq, hot desert nights acting like a sauna. Might as well, and no harm done, he told himself.

 

* * *

 

Keith dropped his backpack on the floor. It looked like no one had cleaned the room in a while. It was empty, except for one bed and a TV older than fuck. Dust bunnies cluttered every corner and there were several black splotches near the ceiling Keith wasn’t sure were dead spiders or black mold.

He might need glasses, but that wasn’t high on the priority list. One thing was though.

Keith paused, listening for his, ugh, _cousin_. Whatever. He stood quietly, carefully tracking the footprints of the guy, who was going from the living room toward Keith’s. Keith froze then moved silently and smoothly to the wall, putting himself out of immediate sight if the guy decided to barge in.

He didn’t. He continued his way past Keith’s room, opening and shutting another door quietly with a subdued arm.

Keith waited another half minute, then made his way toward the window. He opened it and shimmied the screen from the window frame, gently setting it to the side to avoid making noise. He drew one leg over the windowsill, pleased he was living in a one-story house, making his getaway that much simpler. The worst place he’d ever lived was a five-story apartment that didn’t have a fire escape.

Needless to say, Keith had become a pretty fast climber back then.

Keith put back the screen, since it had been easy enough to dislodge, and he didn’t want the guy to figure out how he’d gotten out, at least not after just the first time. Might end up with bars on his window the next morning (it’d happened before).

Keith ran quickly, quietly, over the lawn, cautiously dipping low to the ground to avoid being seen. The moment he was beyond the hedges, unable to be seen from the house, Keith slowed down and smirked a little as he looked back at the house. He flipped it off for good measure, just to satisfy his ego.

Then he _really_ ran.

It was all the way on the other side of town, but a few hours were plenty of time for Keith to get there, do what he needed, and come back. Hopefully his cousin was otherwise occupied during that time, but Keith wasn’t exactly planning to play the Good Kid.

Maybe it’d be a good thing if Keith got caught out, might as well let Soldier Boy know what he was getting himself into. Keith wasn’t going to make his life easy, that’s for sure.

After about an hour, Keith found himself in front of a familiar house with a brown lawn and a small yappy dog sounding off in the backyard. Keith helped himself, hopping over the fence and jumping into their yard.

The barking dog practically slid toward him, tiny legs beating fast against the pavement as he yelped his way to Keith’s toes. Keith bent down, giving the dog a few scratches behind the ears, much to the delight of the chihuahua. The little dog grinned, curling its backend toward Keith to get him to scratch that too.

Keith indulged. “Hey Bouncer,” he said in a low voice. “Life still good?”

Bouncer whined, following Keith as he walked across the yard, lifting himself up onto the back cement block wall. Bouncer yapped while Keith hoisted himself up, scratching up his fingers a bit against the rough texture of the wall. His ribs shuddered a bit when he had to press himself against the wall to get himself up. They were still bruised.

Keith shrugged off the pain.

Bouncer continued to bark, even when Keith was once again out of sight. Keith was now only steps from where he wanted to be. He kept to the bushes, shadowing them and following them to the edge. He peaked inside the back kitchen window, and when he saw several figures wandering around, he ducked down farther. He twisted, rolling a bit to get closer to the house wall. He pressed against the house and leaned his ear up, listening carefully to the voices.

All female. No dice.

Their voices weren’t getting any quieter, but Keith was feeling risky today. Instead of waiting until they left, he kept low to the ground and took a few broad, low steps. When he passed the window he stood, grabbing hold of the drainpipe.

Easy as grating melted cheese, he thought, and he began to climb, heading for the second floor.

He hopped onto the roof, which jutted out slightly on a part of the house that was neither the top floor nor the bottom. Keith grinned as he took a few inhales, trying to catch his breath. Lance was going to shit a brick when he saw his face in the window.

Keith pressed back against the wall again, dipping his head down again to peak into the window, making sure he wasn’t getting one of Lance’s cousins or siblings. When he didn’t see anything, Keith turned fully, expecting to see Lance on his bed, flipping through a dirty mag.

But when Keith looked inside the room, no one was there.

Frowning, Keith opened the window and let himself in. He planted his feet on the ground, and the room was a stark contrast to the one Keith was now living in.

The walls were dark blue, but looked lighter in the full light of the sun streaming through the window, little purple curtains doing little to block it. Tons of pictures and posters clung to the walls, some of them of Pitbull and Lil Jon, most of them 2Pac.

Keith walked over to Lance’s nightstand, opening the bottom drawer and checking the very back. Sure enough, Keith pulled out a Playboy magazine, a newer edition he wasn’t surprised to see.

Seeing Lance wasn’t around, and with Keith not wanting to particularly get caught out after his relatives heard curious footsteps in Lance’s supposedly empty room, Keith decided to bail. But not before a pulled out a page from the magazine, ripping out a pair of large, possibly real breasts, and putting them on top of Lance’s pillow.

Keith put the magazine back and climbed out the window.

He’d go back the way he came, but there were a few more haunts he wanted to visit before he had to go back to his current jail cell.

Freedom was a rare gift in Keith’s life, and he planned on grasping it until it was torn from his cold, dead fingers.

 

* * *

 

“Uh, Keith?” Shiro said, voice hitching at the last moment. Shiro winced and rolled his eyes. He was too old to care about what a teenager thought of him. He’d gone through five years of war and terrorists blowing up camp after camp. He could deal with one kid with an attitude problem. “I was planning on getting a pizza, any preference?”

He was met with silence on the other end. Shiro pursed his lips, ready to shrug, but ended up standing there in silence instead.

It was...too quiet. It was quiet like Shiro felt it was quiet when he was alone, quiet.

Shiro made a short burst of noise, aggravation, annoyance, bitterness and a bit of embarrassment, and he grabbed the handle and shoved the door open.

Yep, he’d been had.

Shiro slammed the door open against the wall. Fuck. It’d been only two hours and he’d already lost the kid _in his own house_. Shiro was turning out to be a terrible parent, and he wasn’t the slightest surprised. Weirdly, it felt like a relief. Keith was a brat through and through, Shiro thought as he took note of the bag dropped onto the floor, window slightly ajar but the screen in place.

Clearly he was going to come back, but he’d definitely gone through the window, Shiro deduced. The small gap was where he’d needed to jut his fingers back in to put the screen into place, Shiro thought. He’d done it enough times in his own troubled youth to know the tells. Not to mention Shiro hadn’t heard the door open, and he might’ve been doing some push-ups, but the noise of the front screen door was enough to hear across the court, and Shiro would’ve heard it.

Shiro was able to detect any sharp sound, he knew them all.

Shiro tapped his foot on the floor, breath filling up in his lungs, determined to hold all of the oxygen to help him think better and fuel his anger. His chest grew warm and Shiro continued to stand there, growing madder and madder, anxious and pissed and still, _still fucking embarrassed_.

A teenager had gotten the better of him, after a few hours.

No way this would’ve happened back in Mortarville. The boys back there fucking respected Shiro, they didn’t fucking test him like a child.

That’s the problem with kids these days, Shiro thought as he grit his teeth, still staring at the partly open window. They always had to push your fucking buttons.

Well fine, Keith wanted to push his buttons? Done. Consider them pushed. And what happened when an officer’s buttons were pushed? War happened.

Shiro shut the window and locked it. He grinned slightly and walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He ordered a large pizza, getting pineapple and artichokes and jalapeño peppers on top, not giving a damn about what Keith might want.

Kid probably hated pineapple on pizza, Shiro thought in anticipated irritation. He took a greasy bite out of the pizza and locked the front door behind the pizza delivery guy. He went around and locked all of the windows and doors in the house, all except one. He felt an invigorated kind of vindication as he imagined the kid’s face when he realized the only window open to the whole house was to the bathroom.

No way he wouldn’t enter the house without a hell of a commotion. The entire thing was tile, and Shiro had put down a little Invisible Teenager Detector to alert Shiro when the kid finally decided to come back.

Now Shiro just had to wait. He poured a bunch of crushed pepper on his pizza and topped it with some more parmesan. Hot pizza solved a lot of problems, Shiro thought as he took another blissful bite.

He didn’t have to wait long. He chewed silently as he parked himself in the hallway, leaning his hip against the wall and eating the pizza straight out of the box.

He heard the telltale sound of the window screen in the guest room popping out of its frame. Silence followed, and Shiro grinned, licking his lips of grated cheese. He’d discovered the window locked. Shiro’s stomach roiled with giddiness and trepidation as he heard the kid make his way to the front door, to discover it was locked as well.

Shiro vaguely wondered if maybe he’d give up, just sit out on the lawn without trying any of the other doors and windows. It made him feel...not guilty, No. No way. Nah. Not guilty for some punk kid who made an idiot out of Shiro first. Brat was getting what was coming to him, for sure.

Sure enough, the kid didn’t give up. Maybe he was just hopeful, or stupid, or stubborn, but he eventually made his way all around the house, finally stopping when he discovered the bathroom window open.

It was a small thing, just a sliver of a thing hanging high above the toilet. It was too small for Shiro, but it’d be enough for his little cousin to shimmy through, Shiro was sure of it.

Now for the good part, Shiro simpered.

He heard Keith pop open the window, and slowly try to work his way through. He was quiet, Shiro would give him that. Some of the trained boys on his squad wouldn’t be able to reach this level of stealth, and Shiro admired it for a moment before hearing his feet touch the toilet seat.

Shiro held his breath, then let it out, quietly and smoothly. Just one more step, and—

A squeak and a squeal sounded, followed by a crash, a clang and a thud. Shiro took that as his cue to open the door and see the scene.

Keith was scrambling on the floor, groaning and growling as he struggled to keep from slamming into the wet and slippery floor. His leather gloves and shoes were no match for the soap Shiro had laid down, however, and every time Keith tried to stand the soap would laugh at his attempt and trip him again, sending him sliding and skidding across the tiles.

Shiro took a bite of his pizza and watched the show.

“Huh,” Shiro said, and Keith’s head whipped up, showing a red face covered in anger and humiliation.

“You—!” he growled as he grappled with the sink while he legs struggled to stay beneath him.

A short pang hit Shiro’s stomach and he swallowed a bit too big. He winced a little and ignored the small voice in his head that told him this had been a bad idea, and continued, “That’s a weird way to enter a house.”

Shiro shrugged and stepped away. Keith reached out desperately, trying to either grab hold of Shiro or maybe to strike him across the face, but Shiro was too fast for him. He closed the door and heard another satisfying slip and growl as Keith fell again. It was then followed by a long sounding tearing noise, like a cloth being ripped and then “—Aww _fuck_ , these are my _only pair of pants, you asshole!_ ”

Despite whatever his conscience had been trying to tell him earlier, Shiro felt pretty damn satisfied with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> Intro: ["California Uber Alles"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GoA_zY6tqQw) by The Dead Kennedys
> 
> Keith and Shiro Theme 1: ["The Bitch Is Back"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ROUccFmugQE) by Elton John


	3. At Home He's a Tourist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: character going into shock.
> 
> Also, I just want to state for the record, this whole series is _supposed_ to be read as one feature-length "film." Of course, I'm a mess and couldn't finish it all at once. My bad.

Keith’s face was hot as he limped his way to his room, slamming the door for good measure. He stood by the door, chest heaving, and the sound of his breath was loud to his own ears.

The motherfucker had locked all the doors, put _soap_ on the tile and _humiliated_ Keith all because he went outside without telling him. What? Was the guy his _mom_? Keith didn’t have to tell him where he was going, he didn’t have to tell him shit!

He didn’t owe Shiro anything! The guy had literally known him for twenty minutes before deciding Keith was his fucking property or something? What a piece of shit. _What a piece of shit_.

But okay, all right, Keith thought, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and ignoring the spot by his groin that was now exposed to the air from the large rip that happened when he’d slipped on the tiles.

Then Keith paused. He looked down at his pants, at the rip that exposed his underwear, and for a moment he blacked out.

How the fuck was he going to go outside now with his only pair of pants fucked up?

And then the gears in his mind started churning. He didn’t have anywhere he needed to be. School wasn’t in session yet, not until next week. He didn’t have a job. He didn’t have friends—well he had, he had—but he wasn’t there—or anyone to see.

But his _Cuz_ sure did.

A plan didn’t form in his mind as much as it did just pop into existence, a great idea not born but simply an apparition of genius that fell into his mind. A bathtub flooding with water, an apple dropping to earth, a ‘Eureka!’ moment that could only be had by someone who expected nothing and was given everything.

He’d simply wait until he was out of the house, and be done in five minutes.

Now see, Keith thought, moving toward the bed. He flopped down on it, groaning as his sore muscles fought against the springs and coils of the old mattress. The bed sheets were soft though, and Keith dropped his cheek to press against the worn blankets, closing his eyes and letting his brain run with the idea.

Now see, a good plan only needed five minutes thought. Instinct was what Keith worked with most of the time, and it usually worked. And in the times it didn’t, his reflexes were always there to back him up.

Later, when Keith was forced to leave his room due to nature calling, he was loathe to see a post-it on the bathroom door and a towel at the base. It simply read, “Clean your messes,” and when Keith opened the door, the soap was still slick on the tiles. He threw the towel on the ground and used his feet to shuffle to the toilet.

He relieved himself, and slammed the door behind him, ignoring his cousin’s call, “Pizza in the fridge!”

“Fuck you!” he called back in a similar sing-song voice.

He fell asleep fast, and hard.

He woke up the next morning, near noon, and Keith walked around the house quietly. He walked first to the end of the house, peeking into the garage. Nothing. He walked back, carefully through the kitchen, grabbing a slice of pizza and eating half of it in one bite. Nothing there either.

He glanced through the living room, which was clearly bare and hardly needing the inspection, but Keith did it anyway. He needed to at least be certain, and yeah, he was certain nothing lurked behind the couch or TV.

He checked the hallway, his, bathroom. Empty except for dried suds on the ground.

He opened the other room, the guest one he hadn’t chosen the opposite his own, not bothering to knock. A green bed was the only thing to give any color to the room, and it, too, was barren of life.

Only room left was the one at the end of the hall. Keith paused at the door, turning his head to listen closely to sounds on the other side. His ears didn’t pick up anything, but that didn’t mean anything, yet.

Before thinking too much about it, Keith opened the door. Better to beg forgiveness than permission, was that how it went? Not that Keith was the type to apologize.

He opened the door and looked inside, but braced himself for a shout, a voice, something to turn him around and come back for another swing.

Instead, he was met with silence. He was alone.

Excellent, Keith grinned, cracking his knuckles against his knee.

He practically ran to the closet doors to the left of the door, throwing them open and digging through them. He grabbed every pair of jeans he saw, every pair of pants and shorts. Remarkably few, guess his cousin wasn’t a particularly materialistic guy.

He went into his laundry basket, riffling through and scrunching up his nose at the smell of ripe underwear, which ignored and grabbed another pair of pants from inside the bin. He grabbed them and threw them with the other pile.

From his back pocket he took out his knife and flicked it open.

Keith grinned and dragged the knife through the crotch of every pair. He started at the middle and thrust upward, edge of his knife scraping against the zipper. Keith threw the pants to the ground, and started on the back of the others, making holes right below the ass, to give everyone outside a nice view of asscheek should his cousin wear them. He thought better of it then, and decided to cut out the whole ass.

Keith held them up and nodded his approval. That’d get more than a few stares and maybe even a citation for indecent exposure.

The third and final pair he cut off the entire leg portion, turning them into the shortest pair of booty shorts he could.

Forget the assless chaps, these were his masterpiece, Keith chuckled to himself, gathering up the leg portions and shredding them with his knife, and going into the kitchen to discard them into the trash.

He grabbed another slice of pizza, then thought better of it and took the whole box into his room.

Pleased with himself, he polished it off, and waited for his current keeper to come back.

Two could play this fucking game, he thought to himself, wiping the grease from the pizza onto his own torn jeans.

 

* * *

 

Two could play this game, Shiro thought, taking the half gallon of orange juice with him to the couch. He flipped through a couple channels, ignoring the news ones and going straight to the cartoons. He took a few gulps of the juice, staring at the screen flashing bright colors and enlarged facial features, then changed the channel again.

He sat in his shorts, feeling the uncomfortable grain of the fabric beneath him dent into his flesh. He looked to the ceiling.

Shorts, that were once pants. Now they were the only thing Shiro could even wear without getting arrested. He was still gearing himself up to go out and buy new ones, along with a padlock to put on his door and closet.

How was this something that was even happening to him? A couple days ago he was ready to eat a bullet, now he was about to go to the Goodwill and pick out pants looking like a desperate prostitute. Hear that? _Desperate_ prostitute, because even prostitutes didn’t have shorts that showed off so much ass it barely begged further exploration.

He got up and left the empty orange juice container on the sink. Without giving himself any time to think, he grabbed his keys from the table and went outside.

He slammed the car door behind him and tore down to the store.

His ears burned _purple_ he was so embarrassed, and pushed on the pull door three times, so flustered from his bare white legs open for the world to see.

How did women do it? he asked himself, running to the men’s pants aisle and tearing through them. Screeching metal sounded against the bar and he ignored any looks his way. Every pair was some form of ugly cargo shorts or jeans meant for an old plumber, ie, too big for Shiro.

He found a few pairs roughly in his size. Not particularly flattering ones, but they’d do until he got his next paycheck and could afford another pair of Levis.

“Can I uh, use the changing rooms to change into these?” Shiro asked the clerk, unable to look directly into her eyes as he threw the cash down to pay for them.

He barely nodded before Shiro threw himself into the tiny box, bruising himself in the process of banging knees against the narrow walls in getting his short-shorts off and putting on his new camel brown tweed pants. It took some effort, since Shiro still couldn’t use his right arm quite right and had to rely instead on the left to get everything secure.

Buttons were the fucking worst when you had one good arm.

Shiro sighed at the feeling of having the fabric protecting the world from prying eyes. Fuck, Shiro would never wear a pair of shorts again without some form of trauma after this. And Shiro fucking knew trauma.

He rolled his neck and exited the changing room, nodding to and then avoiding the clerk as he made his way out.

As he was leaving though, he noticed a rack of colorful clothing to his right. He lurched to a halt. He grabbed his wallet from his back pocket and saw he still had a twenty left.

He grabbed a pair of pastel yellow pants, and then a pair of bright pink ones, both in the same size.

Shiro dropped the pants onto the counter, smiling as the clerk rang him up with a raised eyebrow and a dull stare.

“You wanna change into these now, too?” she asked in a droll and sarcastic voice.

Where once Shiro might’ve blushed, he instead shook his head and laughed.

“No thank you ma’am, I have another plan for these in mind.”

The clerk shook her head, mumbling to herself “don’t even wanna know” but Shiro ignored her and wrapped the plastic handles around his fingers a few times, exiting the store with a little jump to his step.

This was far from fucking over, he grinned.

He rolled the engine, and made his way back home.

 

* * *

 

Keith was going to kill him.

Where the fuck did he even _find_ pink trousers and yellow skinny jeans?

Keith didn’t know what was worse, the fact they were the only bottoms he could wear at the moment, or the fact they _fit him perfectly_.

“Hey there bud,” his cousin said with the flattest and most toneless expression slash voice Keith had ever seen. “Pants fit okay?"

“You’re fucking insane,” Keith said, wrapping his only hoodie around his waist to try and detract from the overbearing yellow. The black of his jacket only made the color stand out more, and really, if Keith just flashed a quick look in the mirror it almost looked like he was wearing nothing.

Still better than those fucking bright pink monstrosities only a grandma on her way to church would wear. Fuck those.

His cousin wrinkled his eyebrows. “I mean, I’m not even the one who fucked with your pants to begin with. Unlike some freak-ass clown with a knife did with mine.”

“Who you callin’ a clown?” Keith hissed between his teeth.

“So you wanna admit it was you then?”

Keith looked him over. The guy was almost a head taller than Keith, with biceps the size of his own waist. Keith frowned and folded his arms over his chest. He dug his nails into the skin of his upper arms, clenching his teeth before answering.

“Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Army Brat rolled his eyes. “Okay, well, until you do, pink and yellow are going to be your new favorite colors.”

Keith snarled at him, “Eat it, Professor Shit-Pants.”

“Whatever chicken-legs,” his guardian-of-the-month responded, walking away from Keith’s position toward the garage.

Unfortunately for his cousin, Keith had already set up his revenge plan earlier.

As his cousin walked away, Keith held still, waiting for the inevitable to come. He wasn’t going to take any of this lying down. Never had, never will. He had his own plans and damned if this one didn’t work every time. He’d found the supplies he needed pretty easily. Balloons, tape and a wall pin.

To every door he knew Shiro would walk through, he attached the blown up balloon on the other side. Opposite the balloon on the door, he placed the taped pin, sharp side facing out.

One second, there’d be peace. The next, the door would open and a gunshot-like sound would go off, usually ending up with screams, curses and the like. If he was real lucky someone would wet themselves. If he was real unlucky, he’d come out of it with a few bruises.

He waited to see what Shit-Pants would do.

His cousin opened the door.

But the reaction Keith got—It wasn’t—

It wasn’t what he expected.

The balloon popped and silence pervaded the room like there was a sudden void. Keith’s ears itched when it went on too long, when he was sure he was about to be killed by his guardian of only two days. Keith waited for what felt like an eternity. His neck burned with anticipation and he could almost feel the presence of the man behind him, ready to jump on him, ready to clobber him until he was pulp for breakfast—

Instead, he heard a body drop, followed by a gasp.

Keith knew that gasp. He’d lived in the bowels of that gasp for months in the desert—he’d talked to an imaginary friend in between those gasps—he felt the world ending in that gasp.

Keith jumped up and vaulted over the couch. He saw Shiro on the ground, head in his hands, face red from lack of oxygen. The veins in his neck bulged and his eyes popped out of his head, wide and unseeing.

He was going into shock.

Keith didn’t hesitate. He dropped down checking to see if he was about to vomit or had any blood in his mouth from unintentionally biting his tongue. Seeing nothing, he turned Shiro on his back and raised his knees.

He still wasn’t breathing.

Keith pressed against his chest, small little pushes, and then bent down over him and breathed into his mouth, trying to resuscitate him. Keith pushed oxygen into Shiro’s lungs, forcing them to inflate, and the sudden cough Shiro gave was a relief.

Keith backed off, breathing harshly, wiping away the cold sweat from his own brow as he watched Shiro reanimate, like a mannequin coming to life.

Keith said nothing. He just sat there, ass on his knees, glaring down at a guy he’d probably almost killed.

Nope. Definitely hadn’t had that reaction before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ "At Home He's a Tourist"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ElhAysq3O6c) by Gang of Four
> 
> [ "Seventeen"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YLSc9pK-VNQ) by Sex Pistols


	4. Fan the Flames

“Check out the ass on that one.”

“Pipe down, Jordan,” Shiro said, tapping the butt of his gun into the soft part of the private’s elbow, giving him a funny bone. “Don’t be a fucking asshole.”

“What?” Jordan asked, rubbing the appendage. “Just cause they’re all covered up and shit doesn’t mean a guy can’t look.”

“That’s exactly what it means, dipshit,” said the newcomer, and Shiro almost rolled his eyes.

The others did it for him. “Ooh~” said Jordan, wiping the sweat from underneath his helmet. He shook out his hand and the sweat flicked off into the sandy road they walked along. “Someone’s got a boner for our sergeant. Siding up with the upperclassmen, huh, tenderfoot? Trying to get out of patrol duty?”

Shiro ignored then favor of staring out at the sandy dunes far to the west. Sand. Sand fucking everywhere. There was sand in Shiro’s boots, his bed, his buttcrack. He was sick and tired of fucking sand. He was growing pearls inside his ears he knew it.

“Well I hate to break it to you,” Jordan continued as the others in the squad laughed, “but Shirogane here doesn’t have favorites.”

“Sure he does,” piped in Farris. “He just hates you.”

Shiro tried not to smile, and mostly succeeded.

Jordan looked irritated, like he wanted to rebut that, but it was too hot for him to care, for any of them really. Even the laughter that had started up died quickly. The sun beat down through their helmets and began to melt their brains, making the troops sluggish and lazy.

“Burqas are to draw away from the female physique,” continued the newest troop, unfettered. “The whole point is to not look at them with prurient intent, cumspot.”

“Prairie-what?” Jordan asked, knocking his helmet against the other’s, forcing him back and away.

“Guys, cut it out,” Shiro said again, warningly. “We’re out here for a fucking reason, not to start fights with each other.” The new troop looked sheepish but Jordan just looked resigned, as if knowing the next words out of his CO’s mouth. “Jordan you know fucking better, keep a lid on it until we’re back at the COP. Everyone else, get in line.”

Jordan did as asked, and walked up in line with Shiro, stepping in tandem.

“You with it?” Shiro asked quietly, hardly moving his mouth so the others wouldn’t hear or see. He didn’t often have heart to hearts with the members of his squadron, but Jordan clearly needed one right now. He’d been off all morning, and while picking on the newest stringers wasn’t unheard of, it wasn’t like any of his guys to try and start something, especially when they were out in the field.

“He’s a fucking burn bag,” Jordan mumbled under his breath. “I can fucking smell it on him.”

“You don’t know that,” Shiro said, running his eyes over the new joe. He was a young thing, and too smart to be an army recruit. Shiro had no idea what the kid was doing out here when he was a second short of getting labeled as an oxygen thief, but that, Shiro noted, was not his fucking problem.

Keeping these guys alive was. That was his mission, from Day One, till the body bag.

“We got a Charlie Foxtrot on our hands,” Jordan said, so familiar with the soldiers’ lingo it fell off his tongue easily like a mother language. He shook his head and spat on the ground. “I can feel it.”

Shiro rolled his shoulders, then turned around and waved his men into their teams. He continued walking, backwards, as he motioned with his free right hand who was with whom.

“Dexter and Fritz, south quadrant,” Shiro directed. “Lucas and Farris, take north. Bend and Jordan, take east.” Jordan gave him a withering look, which Shiro ignored. “I’ll take west with Rainbow here,” he said, nodding to the new guy.

The others chuckled and dispersed, all except Jordan, who held for a moment, still staring at Shiro.

“Burn bag,” he mouthed, then walked away with Bend leading.

“The name’s Holt,” said the new guy, tilted his head back slightly to look up at Shiro. 

Shiro grinned. “I know. But you haven’t earned it yet.”

“My name?” he asked, eyes flashing with annoyance. Shiro grinned a little wider, since under that irritation was a little bit of curiosity.

Looks like they could make a team player out of this guy yet.

“Names have meaning,” Shiro explained, leading them west. The new guy and the sun followed him. “And if you want yours to mean something, you gotta earn it.” Shiro let the sound of the troop’s footfall lull him into a safe space, a space where all his guys knew. 

They knew it because it never lasted for long. For Shiro to keep these guys alive, he couldn’t be their friend, or their mentor. But every now and then, a part of Takashi Shirogane would seep through, and he’d give just a small bit of it to a careful listener.

“You’ll earn it back someday,” Shiro said. “But you gotta show these guys you deserve their respect, otherwise,” Shiro spat on the ground, sniffed in more dirt and sand. “It’s not worth remembering.”

The troop was quiet at his side. The crunch of the sand on the road was the only thing he could ever hear in this desolate part of the world, but if Shiro listened closely enough, he could hear the gears in the guy’s head turning.

“It’s fitting then,” he said.

Shiro glanced his way. “What is?”

“‘Rainbow,’” the troop answered back. 

Shiro lifted an eyebrow, and the troop grinned and barked some laughter.

“‘Cause, you know,” he shrugged and flashed Shiro a dopey smile. “I’m gay.”

Shiro’s mouth itched, and it widened into a full smile. Before he could help it, laughter bubbled out of his stomach, smattering out across the yellow terrain. He clapped the kid on the back, mentioned he should keep that to himself for the time being. But Shiro’s smile didn’t fade, not for awhile anyway.

About a half mile up the road, a woman was running straight for them.

 

* * *

 

Keith fucking bolted. He had no idea where he was going, just that he couldn’t be back at that house, with his cousin, barely breathing and halfway catatonic on the ground. His eyes looked glassy as they stared at the ceiling, his skin had been pale and clammy and Keith hated looking at him, so he ran.

He ran toward the main road, away from the suburbs.

Lance would forgive him for this, for bouncing unexpectedly, again, because who needed this? This wasn’t Keith, not by a long shot. Keith wanted to get the hell out of dodge, so that’s what he’d do.

So he kept running.

He started down the main road, barely hearing the clapping sound his shoes made against the pavement. Thoughts raced through his mind, he parsed through them quickly, dismissing most of them as implausible.

He couldn’t call his social worker. He didn’t have a phone and he couldn’t afford to wait for her to get there. 

He needed a ride. Steal one? Nah, the place was all wrong, there weren’t any lots that were big enough to hide him while he took the time to jimmy one open and then hotwire it.

Hitchhike? Sure, good option. Keith rounded the corner, making a beeline for the freeway before halting in his steps. Before him was a gas station, small with big doors. He’d need supplies, he reasoned quickly; he’d be only a second, he reasoned; he needed a minute to hide, in case anyone was following him.

He stopped. He heaved air in and out of his lungs and wiped the sweat from his brow. Keith grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled it out to let air flow through and under, cooling him off.

He took a deep breath and entered the store, cool as a cat.

“I’m telling you if Glenn dies, Maggie’s gonna lose her shit,” said the cashier behind the counter. The phone had an actual cord that hung well below the top of the counter, where Keith couldn’t see it. Keith breezed passed the door and walked toward the back, darting his eyes to and fro along the way, subtly, mapping out the place.

“She’s already lost her father and her sister, the rest of her family before that, no fucking way she keeps her morality after this dude,” the cashier continued. The place was entirely empty. Well lit and a few cameras around, but nothing high-tech, nothing Keith really needed to worry about.

“Okay but Glenn was the team’s morality, like Hershel was before him,” the cashier leaned against the wall, one foot up against the counter in front of him as he rolled his ankle up and down, flattening his foot on the counter before pushing away. “That timepiece man it’s fucking significant, you ever notice how they show it when someone’s about to die? I think I’m fucking on to something here.”

The corridors were pretty roomy. Keith wouldn’t need to worry about tripping over anything.

“Duh Carol got rid of hers, gave it to Rick. It’s symbolic dude.”

Keith stood in front of the beef jerky, and waited while the cashier’s attention was again focused on the person on the other end of the line. Jerky would last him a while, he could get far with only a pack. Wouldn’t need to eat for a few days with several packs.

The cashier grunted. “They don’t because then it wouldn’t be interesting. Alfred Hitchcock logic, look it up.”

Keith grabbed a handful of the jerky and ran for the door.

“Hey—what—what the fuck!” the cashier yelled, still holding onto his phone as he watched Keith go.

Keith took one look back, reaching out for the door while holding onto the jerky. He watched the cashier’s mouth open and close, eyebrows shot up to his hairline while he didn’t even move to go after Keith.

Because why would he? Keith thought. Why would anyone give a goddamn fuck about a scrawny kid taking a handful of beef jerky for the road? Whose fucking problem was it?

Keith’s hand made contact with the glass door. He pushed it wide open, flying out into the open space before him—

—He’d get to the freeway, flag someone down, make it down to South Bay where he could make it on his own, plenty of rough kids there, he’d be unnoticed, free,  _ free _ —

—When he slammed into what felt like a sandbag.

He bounced off it, back into the gas station store, landing flat on his ass, jerky still clutched in his fingers. Keith looked up, attempting to spring forward and make up for lost time, when a large, foreboding figure stood over, him, one foot held firmly over his ribcage.

“Son, you aren’t going anywhere until I call your parents,” said the cop shaking his head down at Keith, one hand on his baton and another on his radio.

Keith couldn’t see the features of his face, could only make out a silhouette and a shadow of the man, but Keith didn’t give a shit anymore.

Keith was well and truly fucked.

 

* * *

 

She yelled, she cried, she grabbed Shiro’s arm and pulled him toward the house. There was no time for backup, and Shiro could already hear the shit going down inside the house and there was no time for second guessing.

“Private, get toward the back of the house. Find an opening, a window, anything, get your shot and make it if you need to. No. Civilian. Deaths.”

“You need backup!” Rainbow protested, getting in line behind his sergeant.

Shiro ignored the woman’s cries and glared at his troop, ready to get violent if necessary. 

“Dickhead I am in charge here, or did you not get that in basic?” Rainbow shut his mouth, and stared up at Shiro. His stance was firm, the grip on his weapon had no fault, but his eyes wavered and clamped shut.

Shiro growled. “Do what I say, and everyone lives. Do what I say, we don’t die today,” Shiro said, and Rainbow’s eyes widened. He was breathless, but he nodded and Shiro began following the woman inside the house. “Get to the back, find your shot!” he shouted over his shoulder and ran toward the house.

Chaos wasn’t a good word for it. The sounds, the smells, the heat, all of it combined created a perfect melting pot for a hell that Shiro would never, ever forget. The light from the sun streamed in through the back window, putting everything facing him in shadow, hiding features from his well trained eyes. The screams and cries of the children under the bed were almost louder than the woman with a gun held to her head, louder than the woman now behind him falling to the floor, knees shuddering and hand hovering over her wailing mouth.

The smell of the gas, the smell of it all over the fucking house, seeping into the dirt, into the bedsheets, into the skin of them all.

And the tiny little specks of dust that seems to float so peacefully mid air, like little fairies that had come to visit them in the daytime, highlighted and almost glowing when compared to the darkness around them.

Shiro shouted, waved his hand down, ordering the man with the gun in one hand, with a homemade grenade in the other, to put them down.

He was trained for this, Shiro thought, but he wasn’t ready for it.

He saw Rainbow in the window. Rainbow was nothing but a shadow, but when his hand came under the window pane, when he lifted it, Shiro did his fucking job.

“Put down the weapon!” Shiro repeated a little louder, ignoring the small tapping of children’s footsteps that went toward the window. Shiro commanded the attention of the man so he wouldn’t hear them either. “Put down the weapon and get down on your knees, no one needs to get hurt today. Let them go, let the woman go!”

Three pairs of footsteps, gone from the house. The woman behind him wailed incoherently.

Shiro took a step into the room, fixing his gun on the man.

“Put it down!” he shouted. Sweat dripped into his eyes, he could only see the threat in front of him and do his best to— “—put it down!”

The man backed away from the woman. He was turning, and Shiro turned with him, getting him out of the woman’s reach.

The woman behind him was silent suddenly, and then it was just Shiro and the pair of eyes before him, the hands lifted up to the sky, either begging for mercy or bringing down heaven’s wrath.

Another set of hands entered the scene, and just like that Shiro lost him.

Brown eyes turned from fear to power. The man’s hands reached out, grabbing Rainbow, grabbing the troop that had been so close to getting the last woman out of the house. The man dug his fingers into his white, sweating throat, making dark red trails that left the troop wincing in his hold.

From Day One, Shiro had one job. Keeping his men alive, until the body bag.

From Day One, to today, Day Seven Hundred and Eighty-Four.

Shiro dropped his weapon.

Looking back on it, it’d been a pretty fucking stupid thing to do. But even looking back on it, he still couldn’t think of a better idea.

Shiro held up his hands.

“Let him go,” he said. The brown eyes followed his hands, back and forth, wiggled their way down Shiro’s torso to his legs, checking for some sign of attack. “Let him go.”

Rainbow was silent, and his eyes stared back at Shiro. Shiro could feel them on him, but he couldn’t afford to lose the control he had right now, and right now, he focused on the man.

And the man _ lost _ it. He sunk his fingers into the troop’s neck and pulled him back, and Shiro jerked forward, almost like there were strings attached. The man fell, screaming and crying out a name, the Holy one, and his fingers scratched into Rainbow’s neck as he was taken from him, pulled away and Shiro pulled him and threw him out the door.

The screaming had started in anew, and Rainbow fell back into the sunlight, tiny pieces of dust flying over him while Shiro slammed the door shut over the image, over the last face he’d ever see.

The bomb went off, but it created the most peaceful silence Shiro had ever heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Fan The Flames"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pr2um9KXkgQ) by Sheer Mag
> 
> ["Identity"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pst5K6uEPUc) by Xray Specs (*one of my fave punk songs _ever_ )


	5. Ex Lion Tamer

“Just from looking at you, I wouldn’t’ve have figured you’d be the type to steal,” said Frank, the off-duty asshole.

Keith really hated cops, especially small town ones.

“I think it’s the pants,” he finished while staring at the abominable yellow skinny jeans. Keith gave him his iciest glare, but it only earned him a chuckle. “So who should I call? Mom? Dad?”

“Dead,” Keith answered. Frank got quiet.

“Brother? Sister? Aunt? Uncle? Cousin?” Keith flinched and Frank tut-tutted. “Cousin, hmm? Surprised you made it this far out. You’re a terrible liar. What’s the number?”

Keith mumbled under his breath.

“What’s that now?”

“I don’t fucking know.”

Frank continued to lean his arm against his knee, which was propped up on the bench he’d sat Keith on. Keith rolled his ziptied wrists and looked down at the ants crawling in formation along the sidewalk.

He’d been so fucking close.

“All right,” conceded Frank. “What’s the address?”

Keith eyed him. “You’re not gonna call me a fucking liar?”

Frank shrugged. “Honestly, I can’t even remember my wife’s number. I get it.” Keith rolled his eyes, while Frank continued to press him. “So tell me the address and we’ll find ‘em. Get you back home where you can do less harm.”

Keith growled under his breath. “Not likely,” he muttered to himself.

 

* * *

 

Shiro felt an itch on his right arm and went to scratch it. Halfway through the movement, he stopped, and dropped his left hand back to the bed. Old habits die hard, he thought.

“Won’t be the last time,” Holt said, smoking at his bedside.

“Fuck you,” Shiro said, voice raspy and parched.

Holt’s shoulders shook in silent laughter. “Aw, you don’t mean that. At least your eyebrows will grow back. You know those are the real keepers. They map out the bone structure to your gorgeous face and everything,” he said, dropping his cigarette to stomp it out with his boot. He grabbed the water glass off the counter and brought it to Shiro, holding out the straw for him to take. “I’d know, I’m gay as they come.”

Shiro didn’t laugh.

“Aw come on,” Holt pouted, still waiting for Shiro to take the straw. “Everyone loves a gay joke.”

“Not everyone loves a gay,” Shiro countered, still ignoring the water.

Holt rolled his eyes. “Tribalism. Dismiss that which insults our souls.”

“What’s that? Churchill?”

Holt smiled. “Close. Whitman.”

Shiro wrinkled his nose. “That’s not fucking close.” Shiro paused, then gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “But me almost dying was.”

Holt stared at him a moment before defeatedly rolling his head back to stare at the ceiling. “That’s not fucking funny.”

“Sure it is,” Shiro said. “Don’t be so grave.”

Shiro barked a laugh, and Holt stood up. He placed the water back on the stand, and dropped a book next to it. “Here, quench your thirst for brooding.”

“Let me guess,” Shiro mocked. “Whitman?”

Holt laughed. “Nope,” holding up the book, he tapped the cover before throwing it into Shiro’s lap. “Churchill.”

A smile crept up on Shiro’s face as Holt walked away.

 

* * *

 

His cousin looked as commanding and foreboding as Captain America standing in front of the Foodmart. Keith could feel his shoulders curling inward in response, and forced them back, steadying himself.

He was just a guy, Keith said. His cousin, he wasn’t infallible. He got scared too, he panicked. Keith wiped the sweat off his upper lip, watched as his cousin spoke with Frank. They both looked grim, serious, as if they were talking about a murder case and not some kid who’d just tried to steal a couple packs of beef jerky.

Was that why he hadn’t pulled his knife on the guy? He could’ve, Keith realized, licking his dry lips and breathing out, trying to ignore their conversation, like it wasn’t about him. Keith could’ve pulled his knife, ran off, ran down toward the highway and gotten that ride to somewhere, anywhere.

He could’ve pulled the knife on him and gotten sent to the police station, gotten charged with assault with a deadly weapon on a cop, gone back to juvie, or another house.

He could’ve but he didn’t. Why?

“Keith,” his cousin called him. He sounded like he was coercing a dog from behind a dumpster. Keith could almost imagine himself, looking dirty and sweaty and like he’d forgotten to eat a few meals, fitting the image nicely.

A dirty little tramp, needing to be dealt with, he thought bitterly.

Keith walked over, consciously refusing to look at the pig with a suit. Cops, Keith thought, digging up a sneer from his gut. Who needed them?

“Thanks officer,” his cousin said, making Keith want to punch the guy. How many times had he heard that before a good beating back home? “Thanks officer,” they would say, “I’ll deal with him at home—” or “—he’s sorry—” or “—he’ll regret it soon enough.”

Not once had Keith regretted it. Ever.

“I’ll do better for him.”

What?

Keith’s head whipped up, going from Frank to his cousin. They looked like mirror images of each other, standing tall and erect, somber and determined. A little sad, Keith thought as he looked a little closer, a little regretful.

He blinked and it was gone.

His cousin waved for him to follow, and Keith did. Slowly, he put his hands in his pockets and walked outside, finally unable to stop himself and turning to see the cop as he left.

Frank stood with his own hands in his pockets, and he nodded at Keith. He took one hand out of his pocket, and waved it, a short goodbye.

Keith had no idea what that meant.

 

* * *

 

“Hey Soldier Dad,” said Katie through the screen door.

Shiro walked up and opened the door for her. She let herself in and plopped herself down at the table. She took out a small piece of paper and began folding it.

“Hey Katie,” Shiro said, running his hand through his hair. “How’s it?”

“It’s Pidge now, not Katie,” she said, and began to tear a section of the paper off. 

“Oh, cool,” Shiro responded. He sat next to her and watched her work. His young neighbor, Matt’s sister, was a completely different beast from her brother. They looked like twins, Shiro had joked about it, but try and match their personalities and it was like trying to match stripes with polka dots. “Why ‘Pidge’?”

“Kids at school are making fun of me, calling me a little pigeon,” she rolled her eyes. “They’re not very smart. But I’ve decided to take it and run with it, you know, turn the word against them and all that.”

Shiro smiled and tried not to laugh, he didn’t want her taking it the wrong way. “That’s awesome,” he said. “Pidge. I like it.”

Pidge beamed at him, then went back to making her side project. On closer inspection it looked like a cootie catcher. 

“How’s the new arm? I can make adjustments for you if you like, add some features.” She wiggled her eyebrows and flipped the paper back and forth between her hands before settling it on the table. She grabbed a pen from her pocket and began to scribble into the folds. Her long hair fell into her face.

“It’s great,” Shiro said, ignoring the way it suddenly felt like a load of bricks dragging him down. “I really appreciate it.”

Pidge scoffed. “You sound  _ ecstatic _ ,” she said sarcastically.

“It…will just take some getting used to.”

Pidge folded the cootie catcher back up. “Pick a number.” Shiro picked five. “Now pick a color.” Shiro picked black.

Pidge unfolded the paper and smiled as she read the inscription. “‘Every part of you has meaning, even the meaningless bits.’” She looked up at Shiro. “I got that on a fortune cookie once.”

Shiro smiled, then covered it up by running a hand over his mouth. Unwittingly, it’d been his prosthetic one.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Pidge leaned in and wrapped her arms around Shiro. Shiro sat frozen. Her tiny arms barely made it around him, and for such a small thing, she was giving off a lot of heat. Her hair was caught in his mouth, but he didn’t move for fear of pushing her away.

He returned the hug.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, mumbling into his shoulder. “I think you look like a hero. But a cool one, who can like, transform and stuff.”

Shiro let out a short, wet laugh. He blinked harshly and looked up. He ran his prosthetic through her hair, pat her head softly.

She let him go, then punched him in the arm. “Your arm is as cool as the rest of you,” she said, then held out the cootie catcher. “Your turn.”

Shiro let her help him with it, delicately putting the paper toy in both his hands, and opened it when she chose the number seven. She picked the color green.

 

* * *

 

Keith could deal with fists. He could deal with yelling, screaming, accusations and everything that came with it.

What he couldn’t take was silence before it happened.

As Shiro drove them back to the house, Keith’s palms started sweating. His throat was in his stomach and he almost felt nauseous as they pulled up to the house and his cousin still hadn’t uttered one fucking word.

The loudest noises around him were the car doors slamming shut, and his heart pounding in his chest.

Why was Keith so fucking nervous? He’d gotten a beating before, he should be working up his adrenaline, not shaking in his boots like a toddler awaiting a spanking.

When they got inside the house, Keith kept himself by the door, while his cousin walked into the kitchen and grabbed himself a beer from the fridge. He stood by the kitchen table, leaning his left hand against it, as he used his prosthetic one to grip the beer firmly and take a few swell gulps from it.

“Look, just—” Shiro said when he’d downed half his beer, Keith staring at him, waiting for the inevitable to happen when he got a little tipsy and a lot angry. “—Sit down.”

Keith didn’t move.

Shiro rounded the couch, sat down, and turned his full body to stare up at Keith.

“Look,” he started, then stopped. Keith’s hands were twitching he was clenching them so hard. His fingernails were too short to cause any bleeding in his palm, but he could feel them pulsing under his skin, beating faster, in tandem with his heart. He rubbed his thumb almost violently over his index finger.

“Look,” his cousin started again. “None of that was your fault. You didn’t know you were getting a fucked up, bullshit former joe on your hands. I don’t blame you,” Keith stared into Shiro’s eyes, looking deeply, trying to find the lie, “at all. That—just—none of  _ that _ was your fault.”

Shiro laughed, running a hand through his hair and taking another sip of beer. “It’s kind of hilarious actually,” he said, laughing so loud Keith startled. He flinched so hard he jumped away from the door a few inches. “You should’ve seen your fucking _ face _ .”

Keith blushed, and Shiro was practically doubling over with laughter. He was shaking slightly, and Keith couldn’t tell if it was still the aftershock of the trauma, or if Shiro was just, like,  _ seriously _ fucked up.

Huh, that was a thought. Maybe they weren’t so different. 

Keith huffed a breath. He went over to the fridge and grabbed himself a beer, twisting off the cap and taking several large gulps until his throat burned and his nerves were officially calmed. He went over and sat down next to Shiro, then took another long drink of the beer.

Shiro reached around with his left hand, and pat Keith harshly on the chest a couple times, smiling at him. Keith still couldn’t quite look him in the eye.

“Feel better?” Shiro asked with a soft grin on his face.

Keith turned to his beer sitting in his lap. “Yeah.”

Shiro sat back and turned on the TV. Baseball season was in full swing as everyone began talking about the playoffs in earnest.

“Well, now that we’ve got that straightened out,” he said, lifting his feet to rest them on the coffee table, “let’s lay down some ground rules. One: no slamming doors. Or loud popping noises. Unless you wanna do that mouth-to-mouth thing, but I think that’d get old fast.”

Keith made a face and Shiro laughed a little under his breath. 

“Two: when you go out, just let me fucking know. You’re almost a grown kid, I expect you can take care of yourself, but I wanna know where you are.” Keith lifted an eyebrow, which Shiro returned, then shrugged. “I don’t fucking know man, it’s an adult thing. Live with it.

“And three: if you have a problem with me, just tell me. Don’t avoid it, don’t ignore it. Just tell me. We’ll work something out.” Keith watched the A’s throw shitty pitch after shitty pitch on the sludge lot they called a baseball field. Funnily enough, they were still in the game, tied 2-2. “Sound fair?”

Keith gave him a quick look before turning back to the TV. He mimed Shiro, pulling up his feet to put them on the coffee table, and took a sip. “What about me?” he asked. “Do I get to make any rules?”

Shiro shrugged. “Depends,” he said. “If they’re fair, sure.”

“All right,” Keith said, mulling over some ideas. “Number one: you gotta replace my fucking pants. I’m not walking around like Dora the Explorer anymore.”

That earned him a belly laugh. “Okay,” Shiro said, pointing the top of his beer bottle toward Keith. “That’s fair.”

“Two,” Keith said, gaining confidence. “No pineapple on future pizza orders. You’re a fucking adult—act like one.”

“What?!” Shiro balked, sitting up and setting both feet on the ground. “That’s bullshit. You’re—” he paused, leaning back into the couch again. “That’s bullshit."

“And finally,” Keith stipulated, “I don’t have to tell you  _ where _ I’m going.”

“Now wait,” Shiro held up his hands, “What kind of guardian would I be if—”

“One who trusts me,” Keith assured, staring him down.

Shiro looked down at his beer. “Look, Keith—”

“It’s only a few months. I turn 18 in October,” Keith added before he could say anything. “I’ll be out of your hair then, and I promise not to steal from another store. But if you want  _ me _ ,” he said, pointing from himself to Shiro, “to trust  _ you _ , I need the same thing. Do we got a deal or should I tell you to go fuck yourself?”

Shiro rolled his eyes. “You think you’re scary, that’s cute. I had a squad of nightmares back in hell,” he mumbled under his breath. He sighed a big deep of breath from his gut. “This is a terrible idea, but, that’s fair. I do think that’s fair. All right,” he said, tapping his beer glass to Keith’s. “The rules are set.”

“And if they’re broken?” Keith asked.

Shiro lifted an eyebrow in thought. “Rule-breakers have to wear the pants.”

“The pink ones?” Keith clarified, mouth almost cracking into a grin.

“The pink ones,” Shiro said.

Keith let the grin loose. “And I can drink beer?”

Shiro shrugged, “I don’t care. Just don’t get drunk and make me have to clean up after you.”

“So you’re like a ‘cool mom’?” Keith asked, taking a gulp of the beer.

“Don’t...call me that,” Shiro said scrunching up his nose comically.

“Yeah,” Keith’s lip quirked into an odd little smile. “It felt weird saying it.”

Shiro chuckled. “Yeah, glad we’re uh,” he paused, blinked while he tried to finish his sentence. Keith waited, knowing how it felt when coming out of shock. He usually forgot his words too. “Uh, jiving.”

Keith dropped his head forward, then rolled it back and forth, disapproving. “Man, you can’t say not to call you ‘mom’ and then say shit like that.”

“I know,” Shiro ran a hand over his face, the left one, while the right held his beer firmly. “It came out and I regretted it.”

Keith almost laughed, instead, he leaned back against the couch and continued to watch TV with Shiro while he drank his beer.

The rest of the day didn’t suck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [8 Ball](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3nth7sgHtKs)
> 
>  
> 
> [Ex Lion Tamer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6nE8DFaxd94)
> 
>  
> 
> [History Lesson, Part 2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cfzhq1CjJG0)


	6. (No Somos Pendejas)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> He's here!!!!!!!!!!!!

Cirac’s Auto Salvage was in the next town over and was a complete shithole. Shiro was the first respectable worker there in years and he paid for it. Cirac had named his next child after Shiro and also made him work shitty hours doing hard labor for dirt pay.

It was partly what made Shiro love the job so much. Out in the salvage yard it was his job not to think. All day for six days a week he worked ten-hour shifts where he didn’t have to use his brain. He just used his well earned muscles to dislodge old engines from wrecked Volvos, to dismantle usable doors and to do whatever else needed to be done to earn Cirac a couple more pennies on the dollar for old, destroyed cars.

They used the salvaged parts to make up cars that weren’t totaled, and that’s how they made their business. Rags to riches, the true American story.

Shiro was working on an old Beemer from the ‘60s. It’d finally died out, engine sputtering as the old man who’d brought it in shook his head mournfully.

“My wife gave birth in this old gal,” he said while Shiro had been in the back assessing the leather interior. He’d never shot out of a car so fast in his life.

Cirac gave the old man a small sum for the defeated car and told Shiro to take out anything that could be used.

The entire body of the car was in excellent shape, Shiro noticed, but the insides were shot. The distributor needed replacing ages ago and the timing belt was what had collapsed the engine. The engine had nearly exploded, but before going out managed to crap on every mechanical part in the car.

Damn shame, Shiro thought as he shut the hood over the car’s guts. Damn shame.

Shiro had been thinking about a way to scrap the innards, maybe get the car running again if he found a decent timing belt. But a new engine in a car that old would be a tough sell for Cirac. Maybe he could go for the “it’s a classic” angle, it’d been known to work and car antiquers loved a good Beemer.

Then Shiro had turned around and saw it. A dumpy looking motorbike, right in front of him, hidden by hundreds of unhooked doors on the side of the front yard. Shiro walked a few steps to it and grabbed hold of the handlebars.

The mirror fell off and shattered around his ankles. Shiro grunted. It felt like an omen.

He continued to check out the bike. It was small and only had 150cc, about the equivalent of Shiro’s lawnmower. But it was so damn light, it could be good enough to take the sucker out for a wild spin on the back roads outside town if the driver were light enough, too.

Shiro gave it another coarse once-over. He leaned it against his knee and wiped his hand on the metal, warm from soaking in the sunlight. Scraping off the mud revealed a deep red color, which Shiro admired in an offhand way.

“Shiro!” Cirac called from the office, phone attached to his ear. Shiro felt badly for whomever was on the end of that line, as Cirac didn’t believe in holding the receiver while he bellowed out to his staff. “Phone call for you! It’s about—” Cirac muttered into the phone again, begging a question. He shouted into the phone, no words, just an outraged cry. “Shiro has no child! He is a bastard! No, what’s the word? Bachelor!”

Shiro shook his head and jogged over to take the phone from his boss.

Cirac gave him a wide-eyed look and clicked his tongue when Shiro didn’t immediately explain why someone was calling for him asking about a child. Shiro grabbed the phone and introduced himself.

“Shiro here, how can I help you?”

“Is this,” said a bored woman on the other end of the line. “Takashi Shirogane?” She pronounced it more like Tuh-KAY-shi Shee-roh-gayn, but Shiro didn’t really bother to correct her.

“Just call me Shiro,” he said. “What’s the reason for this call? I’m at work ma’am, I can’t really take personal calls here.”

“Well seeing as you don’t have a landline and calls to your cell phone aren’t going through, this is the only phone I can reach you,” she said, somewhat sharply.

“Well ma’am, you do have a point,” Shiro conceded, realizing he’d forgotten to pay his phone bill again. “How can I help you?”

“Your ward was formerly a member of our school, St. Mary’s, and since you’re his new guardian, we need you to re-register him if he’s to be admitted for this year.”

“St. Mary’s?” Shiro repeated. “Seriously? The private school by the CHP office?”

“That’s the one,” she droned boredly, and Shiro wondered just how long she’d been at this job. “Can you come in and do it today? School starts this week.”

In all honestly, Shiro had completely forgotten he needed to register Keith for school. His own parents had never done anything, or if they had they’d never mentioned it. You mean kids didn’t just show up for school? Wasn’t it a law anyway?

Shiro shook out his hair and got his mind back on the conversation. “Um, yeah I can drop by during my lunch break, if that’s all right? I can make it around 2?”

“I’ll pencil you in,” she said drably. 

“Um,” Shiro began, “about tuition—”

“Keith is part of our Foster the Fosters program,” she cut in. Each word took about a minute, since she was clearly very old. Shiro saw Cirac out o the corner of his eye, hands on his hips and eyes bulging with frustration and curiosity. He wanted Shiro back to work but he never could miss a chance to discover good gossip. “Meaning it waives his tuition.”

“Oh great, “ Shiro sighed, truly relieved. Not only was Keith going to a private school, but it was actually closer to the house, and on Shiro’s way to work. Things were looking swell for Shiro the Guardian.

“Not so fast,” the woman warned at a sloth’s pace. “It is contingent on the fact that Keith maintain his grades and adhere to the school’s ethics and standards. Capice?” 

Shiro blinked a few times. She’d pronounced it “kah-peach-ee.” “Uh,” he said. “Capice?” he finished stupidly.

“Bueno,” she said without any accent, but remarkably better than her previous attempts at foreign words. “See you this afternoon, honey.”

She hung up the phone before Shiro could say goodbye to the strange woman on the other end of the line. Instead he stared at the phone a moment, and hoped he didn’t need to bring anything other than his ID to register Keith.

Shiro placed the phone back in its charging station, and made his way back to the BMW, small red bike completely forgotten.

 

* * *

 

Not only was it Keith’s first day back in school in more than a year, it was also his first day back at St. Mary’s. He’d almost forgotten the pretentious resale Mustangs that littered the parking the lot, the even smugger kids with slicked back hair and shiny veneer smiles purchased by mommy and daddy.

Keith clenched the strap of his bag and walked, head up and gaze avoidant.

It was a small school—everyone recognized him.

“No way—” “—I thought he died?—” “—No I heard he killed a kid in juvie and then went back to kill the guy’s family—” “—Didn’t he win some salsa dancing competition and move to Rio?” “Nah dude that was Rickard, apparently he’s in the Regionals now.”

Good for Rickard, whoever the fuck he was.

Keith continued to walk forward, not pausing or making any pleasantries or meaningless half-nods to any faces he recognized.

And everyone stayed out of his way. It was like watching a drop of oil tumble down into a cup of liquid. Everyone seemed to keep a several-foot radius around him. Keith made it to the east side where his locker was. He didn’t have anything in it, or really anything to put in it at the moment, but he had no intention of sitting in a classroom alone until the bell rang, and hell if he was going to hide out in the bathroom like a coward.

  1. 28\. 4—



“Keith?!”

Keith froze. 

“Keith! Oh my fucking—Keith!”

Without a breath in between Keith was nearly pounded into his locker when a body from behind him sprang onto him. Keith turned his head at the last minute, narrowly avoiding smashing his face into the cold metal to see a familiar face with bright blue eyes staring directly at him.

“Fuck you! You ruined a mint copy of Paula Abdul’s breasts straight from a historical document!”

“Nice to see you too, Lance,” Keith responded, rolling out his shoulder. He began the walk to his class as Lance followed along with him.

“—No idea how you got into my house,  _ again _ , without being caught by ‘uela. I mean that lady has the ears of a hawk when I happen to eat the last of the Pringles but when our actual home is  _ broken into _ she has  _ no idea _ what happened. Ugh,” he groaned. “Old people.”

Keith watched as Lance walked alongside him, long legs easily keeping up with Keith. When did he get so tall? And when did he get shoulders wider than the length of Keith’s pinky tip to thumb?

“When did you get back? Where are you staying? And  _ how _ did you manage to get on no less than three local news broadcasts after spending a year who the fuck knows where and I still can’t get Linda to remember my fucking name.”

A pretty blonde girl passed right by them and Lance looked wistfully away from Keith to her, holding up a hand and wiggling his fingers. “Hi, Linda,” he said almost timidly, mostly adoringly.

She laughed. “Hi, Joshua,” she said, passing them both.

Lance sighed. “Not even fucking close.”

“Glad to see you haven’t changed,” Keith said, poking Lance to get him to turn around and stop staring at Linda’s tiny miniskirt fleeing away from them. Lance jumped a little when the bell rang, and Keith couldn’t help but notice the way his lashes looked so thick when he blinked a few times quickly, processing his thoughts.

“Okay, let’s meet for lunch, in the old place? Okay?” He gave Keith a double finger-gun, followed by a posh, silly smile and a wink. “Don’t be late partner, I know where you live!”

“No you don’t!” Keith called out to him, holding open the door of his class with his foot.

“Not the point, I’ll see you or I’ll beat you!”

“Fuck you!” Keith called, loud and long, and the phrase echoed throughout the hallway, chasing after Lance as he giddily jogged away, late to his own class. Keith walked the rest of the way into the classroom, and came face to face with a wide-eyed, half-frightened class of peers and a half-lidded, fully-pissed off teacher.

He shrugged and took his seat. Only four more hours until lunch.

 

* * *

 

Keith managed to make it through the next four periods pretty unscathed. His history teacher remembered him—more than he felt comfortable with—and had a beaming smile for him as he took his seat in the back. His former physical science teacher, now physics, gave him a nod and asked Keith if he’d kept up in his studies. 

His German teacher outright scowled when she saw his name on the roster—clearly she remembered November 24 from two years ago—and weight training put him in a new teacher’s class, finally giving him somewhat of a fresh start at the school.

Trouble with a small town was the small schools, and the small minded people who inhabited them. Keith didn’t mind the stares, but the whispers graded him and got him bench pressing way more than he should’ve his first day back under the bar.

When class was finally over, Keith didn’t bother showering. He just wiped his gym shirt over his face, grabbed his bag and headed over the tables on the other side of the basketball court to wait for Lance.

He’d just put on his sunglasses when Lance jumped on the table and grabbed Keith’s shoulders with both hands.

“Did you die?!” Lance asked. “Did your soul ascend to another plane of existence and  _ that’s  _  why you didn’t call me? What the fuck dude it’s been a goddamn  _ year  _ and you didn’t think to tell your best fucking friend of forever and ever that you were coming  _ back _ to me?”

Keith slapped his arms away. “Nice to see you too, Lance.”

“Oh my god I have  _ so _ much to fill you in on,” Lance gushed, and proceeded to tell him how the Spanish teacher had partaken in an illicit affair with the hot female janitor, which led to her husband stalking the halls one morning shouting for his blood from the stairwells.

Last year’s seniors had spray painted an entire SpongeBob episode on the side of the gym and after homecoming last year someone had stolen the security yard’s golf cart and driven it through the Starbucks drive-through.

“And they didn’t even bring anything back for Linda,” Lance said, referring to the security guard. “She was so fucking pissed.”

Keith screwed up his mouth, thinking about just how mad the 5-foot flat lady probably pitched a fit big enough to raise hell at that. “I would’ve liked to see that,” he said.

“So where are you now? Why are you back? Were the other people terrible? Who’s your guardian this time? Don’t tell me it’s the fucking Sables again,  _ don’t _ ,” Lance warned earnestly, and Keith shook his head.

“Found some cousin of mine who conveniently lives right around here. He’s some fucked up veteran. I don’t know,” Keith said, staring down at the half of Lance’s lunch he’d been given.

“Is he good people?” Lance asked, chewing on his cold grilled cheese.

Keith thought about Shiro’s loud laugh and prosthetic arm. He thought about the exploded oatmeal in the microwave this morning and the beer he was allowed to drink in the fridge.

“I’m not sure yet,” he said quietly. He turned his thoughts away from the memory of Shiro picking him in front of the gas station, talking to Frank, telling him he’d “do better.” “Not that it matters,” he added, “since I turn 18 in two months.”

Lance’s mouth dropped open. “Oh shit, you’re right,” he said. “Are you, uh—” Lance wiped his hands on his pants and swallowed the last bite of his sandwich. It must’ve been a huge bite, since Keith could hear him swallow. “Are you gonna bail? I mean, are you gonna—” he paused, changing his words. “Ditch school?”

Keith shrugged. “Not sure. I haven’t really thought that far yet.”

Lance rolled his eyes and looked away from Keith. Neither of them said anything for a moment, and Keith took a moment to appreciate Lance a year older. Lance would always be a confetti popper ready to burst, but there was a seriousness about him that’d been lacking previously. A year ago Keith couldn’t imagine Lance being quiet for a second where there was silence to fill, but now he looked out at the guys playing basketball and seemed content to just.

Watch.

Finally, Lance shrugged.

“Well, at least we can have fun now. It’s been boring as shit without you.”

Keith scratched his cheek, trying to will away the small smile that was dangerously close to showing itself.

Luckily the bell sounded, signalling an end to the lunch period. Lance stood and stretched, and Keith was again slightly bewildered when he realized Lance was as tall as he was.

That had  _ better _ be temporary, he thought to himself.

They parted ways with the agreement to see each other the next morning, and Keith made it through his next three classes with hardly a few brain cells left in tact. 

He was behind after his year off. He’d been “home-schooled,” technically, but all Keith really remembered were rope burns and bleeding knuckles and a sharp, pitchy voice reminding him to heed Leviticus, so he had a lot to catch up on.

His cousin had told him he wouldn’t be home until 6 p.m., which gave Keith until then to either make his way home or tarnish some property before then. 

Shrugging off the desire to vandalize property, Keith walked the mile-and-a-half home and grabbed two beers out of the fridge. He grabbed a jacket and stuffed them in the pockets, then made his way outside to the backyard.

It was quite a view, even from the ground. The house Shiro rented was situated on top of a hill in a small court and overlooked most of the town. Granted, the town was a shitty one and Keith’s view was mostly of caged-in fences and caged-in guard dogs, but it was something better than the desert he’d come from.

He gripped the side of the house, where the brick chimney perched out from the wall, and began to climb onto the roof. Keith had a knack for climbing, had since he’d needed to to get away from his less kind guardians. Keith always preferred being in a house with a tree nearby, since it meant a shot at safety.

Here, there were a few trees, but Keith liked the look of the roof, and liked how it would put him even higher off the ground, since the trees were on the slope.

He climbed up and grabbed hold of the roof’s edge, and hoisted himself up with a bit of effort. His arms were already feeling it from gym class, but Keith had more wires in him than most might give him credit for. He climbed higher, up to the ridge. 

He looked out, across the other side of the house, across the front and the court, past the intersecting street, and gasped out loud.

Beyond the house was the view of the strait, the green and golden hills behind her, and the marshes along the water’s edge. Keith could see the small sailing boats go by, and was lucky enough to catch the train on the far side of the strait going east.

He gripped the ridge as he stared at the sight before him, and he tried to ignore the lump in his throat, even as he roughly had to wipe away wetness from his eyes.

He didn’t know what this house would bring him, who Shiro was yet to him. But he had Lance back, and he had this view.

He wasn’t going to let either of them go without a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lance is so fucking great.
> 
> Also this is now when y'all should start yelling at me. I have some scenes written but lots of empty holes, which mean the next chapter is coming I don't know when?
> 
> [ Somos Chulas (No Somos Pendejas)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EWG1SfuT02o)  
> Keith is so fucking Closeted for Lance:[Always On My Mind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u9sRJ-eOHnc)


	7. Bata Hotel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Walks in late with a Starbucks* Hey.

Shiro ran his thumb over the new phone and frowned. It wasn’t an iphone or anything close to it, but it technically worked and Keith needed  _ something _ if Shiro wanted to keep in contact with him. He got a small stipend from the state for caring for Keith, but it really wasn’t enough if Shiro really wanted the kid to thrive. Which meant probably more hours at the auto-salvage on the weekends, and more hours meant less time actually supervising the kid.

It was weird thinking something like that, “wanting the kid to thrive,” but it was, nonetheless, true. Shiro had long given up on his own life being the beacon example of a life worth living, but at least with a decent income the kid could have a few good months before…

Huh. Was Keith going to leave when he turned 18? Would he finish out the school year? Would he stay with Shiro beyond that? Was Shiro required to keep caring for Keith beyond that?

He supposed he’d have to give that social worker a call, and soon.

He opened the front door with a long, deep sigh and dropped the new phone on the kitchen table. He opened the fridge and stuck his head in for a moment, relishing in the brisk cold after a long day out in the sun. He grabbed a beer—man he was running out of these fast—and shut the door with his foot. 

He drank half the bottle in one long swallow and then dropped the bottle on the table, belching a little into his hand as he moved toward the kitchen outlet. He removed his prosthetic and placed it gently on the counter, plugging it into the wall to charge. As nice as the prosthetic was, as much as he wore it outside to make people feel less uncomfortable, he hated wearing it at home.

“Uh, Keith?” Shiro called out and winced. He hated how shy he sounded calling out the kid’s name. It felt weird.

“In here,” came out a call from the garage. Shiro followed it and saw Keith sitting on the floor, rummaging through boxes. “I was looking for some towels.”

“Oh,” Shiro blinked, “right.” He just had the one. Damn, looks like another trip to the store was in order that night. “Uh, gimme an hour and I’ll go down to the store and get one.” He paused to think a moment. “Actually, wait right here, I have an idea.”

Shiro left the suspicious-eyed teenager in the garage and headed out the front door, turning right and skipping over a house before getting to his destination. He rang the doorbell, softly pressing his fingerpad into the small button, as if pressing it lightly would dim the sound a bit. Instead, the usual ‘Twilight Zone’ theme song played loudly from inside the house, and a chorus of shouts and scrapes and barks came closer to the door.

Beside him, the camera whirred and Shiro heard the all-familiar “It’s Shiro!” bellowed from an obnoxiously loud voice from someone who was only half his size.

The door flew open and Pidge, eyes covered with square blue micro-goggles looked up at him from two feet below, gripping the door and wrinkling her nose up at him.

“Hey Sweat-for-Brains,” she yelled affectionately at him, “who the fuck is that guy?” she asked, pointing behind Shiro. 

“Katelynne Anne Holt!” her mother called from behind her, “use your language effectively!”

Shiro turned around and saw Keith had followed him and was staring at Pidge like she was a bug under his shoe. For a moment Shiro felt guarded. He was just as protective of Pidge as he was of anything he cared about in this known universe, and Keith was too new in his life to let him take any liberties where she was concerned.

Luckily, while Keith’s nose stayed wrinkled in teen-rebel distaste, he said nothing as he came up from behind Shiro and looked at Pidge with mild curiosity.

“I’m Pidge,” she said, sticking out her hand to shake. Keith looked down at it dumbly for a moment before taking his own out of his pocket and fitting it neatly into hers. Instead of shaking it, Pidge pulled and dragged him into the kitchen. “Mom we’ve got guests we need the twinkies okay!”

“Shiro!” Colleen Holt finally showed herself from her office, smile beaming as she welcomed Shiro in. “Are you here for dinner? Katelynne don’t spoil your dinner with those twinkies!” She turned back to Shiro with blinding speed. “It’s been too long and I’ve seen pizzas delivered to your house far more often than I like to see. You know you’re always welcome here, Shiro, you don’t need an invitation.”

Shiro blushed at the attention, feeling like he was 15 again and trying to make nice with a girlfriend’s mom. “Oh thanks, Mrs. Holt but actually, I was just hoping to borrow a towel for a few days, um, I actually am taking care of my cousin there, Keith—”

“Wait what?” Colleen interrupted, and Shiro remembered just exactly Pidge got her mannerisms from. “What do you mean cousin? Keith? How long is he staying? I didn’t know you had family, where is he now?”

Shiro tried to answer but apparently, Colleen’s mom ears recalled what Pidge had said, about the “we” and the twinkies. “Katelynne is Keith with you?”

“I don’t know his name!” she bellowed from the kitchen. 

Colleen muttered under her breath as she walked toward the kitchen, yelling for her husband in the meanwhile and stomping toward her daughter. Shiro looked in and saw Pidge sitting on the kitchen island, surrounded by empty wrappers of twinkies while Keith watched in awe as she had placed each one on her dog’s head, creating a kind of Jenga masterpiece while Rover held perfectly still.

“The most I’ve ever gotten was 37,” Pidge said while Colleen groaned beside him. “Mom do we have anymore?”

“Baby you know those aren’t for experimenting.”

“Well they sure aren’t for eating.”

“SAM!” Colleen bellowed beside Shiro. “Your daughter’s at it with the twinkies again!”

“How many this time?” called Pidge’s dad from outside. A sliding door opened and closed carefully and Sam popped his head into the kitchen, glasses slightly askew and a small burn mark noticeable on his chin.

“Only 24,” Pidge said before popping one twinkie in her mouth and handing another to Keith. Keith took his and held it gently in his palm. Shiro watched Keith, who was completely torn on wanting to eat the twinkie but unsure if he was actually welcome to. Shiro darted his good arm forward and snatched a twinkie from the dog’s head, eating the whole thing in one bite.

Keith took comfort from this and took a healthy bite of the all-American snack. Shiro swore he could detect a small smile while he chewed. He’d have to remember that for grocery shopping later.

Meanwhile Colleen and Sam were bickering over the small burn mark, completely unaware of Pidge now adding some ding-dongs to the mix. Every time she gave Keith one to munch on, he would accept it quietly and eat it, watching the dog hold perfectly still in the meanwhile.

“Well that’s settled then,” Colleen said. “Shiro come help me with dinner while Sam gets together a few things for Keith, and you’ll tell us all about our new family member. It’s just getting bigger all the time!”

Pidge simpered. “Matt’s got a new boyfriend.”

Shiro’s eyebrows went up. “No! In the regiment?”

“Yup. Name’s Richard, or something stupid like that.”

“Something stupid? Like ‘Pidge’?” Colleen grinned, wiping twinkie fluff from her daughter’s cheek. 

“Sick burn, mom,” Pidge said, fighting a real grin. She grabbed all the twinkies and ding-dongs from Rover’s head and plopped them on the island. She jumped down and grabbed Keith’s arm again, taking him to the backyard.

And for the next hour, the Holt house thrived with its new occupants. Shiro helped Colleen where he could with his one good arm, answering her questions and being as forthcoming about the whole thing without trying to seem too out of his league. Of course Colleen hummed and hawed like only a savvy mother could in all the places she knew Shiro was leaving out. 

She didn’t give him any advice, didn’t chide him on not coming to her, she simply listened and asked more questions, challenging him to regale every small detail he had come to know about Keith in the short time—had it only been a week?— since he’d been in his life.

“Well,” Colleen said finally, ready to give her opinion. “I must say I’m glad for it. I like seeing another soul in your house, if only to keep you company for a short time. I’m really glad for that.”

Shiro shrugged awkwardly. “Being alone isn’t all bad.”

“No it isn’t, it’s sometimes necessary. But you’ve been alone a long time Shiro, and I’ll bet that boy has too. It’ll be good for you to see who you are with another person again. Life’s a balance you know,” she tutted as she stirred the half-homemade tikka masala before pouring it into a nicer dish. “Know who you are alone. Know who you are in a family. Gives you purpose outside everything else.”

She gripped the upper arm of his missing arm tightly, gazing at him with well-earned wrinkles and a slightly sad smile. “I love you like a son Shiro, but you’re not mine. I hope you and he and can be each other’s.”

Colleen was so much like her daughter. Where she poked the needle in he felt pain, but the relief after felt like all the hot air was being released from his tired soul. He leaned forward and kissed her hair softly. She giggled like a younger woman and grabbed the tikka masala while nodding to the rice and naan. “Take whichever one is easier to carry, and let’s go meet that kid of yours.”

Shiro sat next to Keith during the dinner, and despite all the questions that came his way, no one learned too many specifics about Keith that night. Not about where he’d come from, not about what he’d done before, but Shiro watched the tension in his shoulders everytime someone reached out to grab something from the table. He saw the crow’s feet in the corner of his eyes deepen when he watched Pidge and Colleen joyfully mock and tease each other. And he noticed the twitch of a smile when Sam held a finger to his lips in the motion of a secret as he dropped a full piece of naan on the floor for the dog to lap up.

Keith wasn’t comfortable, not yet, but his heart was showing. That meant something, Shiro thought.

By the time they got home with a box full of toiletries, linens and other things Shiro had never considered needing for a second person in his house, it was well toward midnight.

“They can be a lot,” Shiro said, letting Keith open the unlocked door.

Keith shrugged, holding open the screen door to let Shiro in with the box.

“They’re good people though,” Shiro said.

“Hmm.”

Shiro dropped the box on the kitchen table and ruffled through the contents a bit before glancing at the abandoned cell phone he’d put on the table earlier. “Oh,” he said, grabbing it and tossing it to Keith.

Keith caught it easily and looked at it not totally unlike how he’d been eyeing the twinkie earlier that evening.

“It’s got my number in it,” Shiro explained, “and texting is free, but calls aren’t. We don’t have a lot of money to put on it, so I guess just use the calls for emergencies. But text to your heart’s desire I guess.”

Keith said nothing, he just stared at the phone some more, fiddling with the crappy plastic touchscreen.

Shiro felt the tell-tale rumble of awkwardness stir in his belly and shifted the box in Keith’s direction. “Well,” he said, “all yours. I’m uh, going to bed.”

He paused a moment, waiting for any response from Keith. When he got none, he drummed his fingers on the table and headed off to his room. He listened carefully as he closed his door, listening for Keith to pick up the box, to mumble to himself, anything.

But Keith hardly made a sound as he continued to go through his phone. For some reason he didn’t know why, Shiro’s heart tightened at the sound of that silence.

 

* * *

 

Hanging out with Lance again, it was like they’d never missed a beat. It was like Lance had been there all along, like his year in hell was just a shitty dream, and now this was reality. Lance, with his pitchy voice, his loudness, his dramatic gestures, was exactly what the doctor ordered, and for a few days, seeing him in the morning and at lunch was the only thing Keith cared about.

Fuck the past. This was the now, and the now was okay.

Even things at the house weren’t bad. Keith still couldn’t stomach being around his cousin for longer than an hour, and he avoided the neighbors like the plague, but that was because, well, because…

It wasn’t going to last. Keith knew that. He had three months to handle his shit—less time now—and get the hell out. He still had nowhere to go, although there were a few empty lots he’d found around town that might be cleared of cop patrols, allowing him to sleep the night. He’d have to figure out a place to shower, but public bathrooms had gotten him through some rough times before.

His whole life, Keith had wanted what he’d seen in the Holt house. Both parents, a kid and a dog, Keith could picture it so easily it had a taste and a smell. His parents alive with a small yappy dog and maybe Shiro would’ve been the long-distance brother that Pidge had now. But seeing that picture in front of him was like putting on a shirt two sizes too small.

He’d grown out of that life. He’d never had a hope of a chance to live like that, and how he was a fucking adult. Adults don’t have hopes, they have expectations, and Keith’s had been down in the gutter since he was 14.

He learned to take the small moments. Like waking up early and watching the sun rise while everyone slept quiet. Like running around the block and knowing there was no one behind you. Like watching Lance mime an entire episode of Chopped in seven minutes flat.

So Keith was living those moments now, while he could take them. And things were good.

Up until Thursday morning.

Lance had been leaning against the lockers, talking about some chemistry test he had totally aced, most definitely, in fact he’s probably got the best grade in the class right now, “or at least I would except these other couple kids see, they keep doing these extra credit projects and like fuck that I’m going for the traditional approach okay, that extra credit stuff is fucking cheating and everyone knows it it’s like fucking with the stock market while I’m buying up real estate—”

A smash and a yelp sounded and Keith flew toward the noise, grabbing Lance and pulling him back toward him, nearly throwing him behind him.

He’d reacted on instinct and when his senses caught up with him, his eyes narrowed further and his body tensed, then loosened, ready for a fight.

Some dude twice as tall as Lance nearly and several times larger had thrown him into the lockers, purposefully, if that shit-eating grin meant anything.

“I’m sorry little fairy, was that too hard for you?” taunted the “kid”—Jesus the guy was like Shiro’s size, but had both arms and an ugly face—to Lance.

Lance laughed weakly from behind Keith, stumbling forward to get between them. “Nah man, just wasn’t expecting it. Howzit going Sendak? Life good?”

Keith said nothing. He was still sizing this Sendak up when the giant nodded toward him. “Who’re you? His girlfriend? You are smaller than he, no? This means you’re his bottom lover?”

“Nah, nah,” said Lance, adding a little bounce to his frame and trying to smile. His smile looked more like a forced DMV photo, caught mid-flash. “This is Keith, the dude I told you about? Made the papers recently.”

Sendak scoffed. “I am...not impressed.”

“Well glad for that you motherfucker,” Keith spat. “The day I impress you is the day I fucking blow up an elementary school; you look like you’d be into that shit.”

Lance eyes nearly bulged out of his skull.

“Whoa! He uh, didn’t mean that,” Lance said, waving his hands around a little frantically. “He just, you know,” Lance toggled his head back and forth, “has problems with authority.”

Sendak approached Keith, standing right before him, and having to lean down to press his forehead into Keith’s.

Keith pressed right back, pushing and even causing Sendak to back up a tiny step. Keith might be smaller but he wasn’t inexperienced with intimidation tactics.

“I think your girlfriend needs to take her Midol pill,” grumbled Sendak, breath hot on Keith’s face.

“You think you can push him around cause you’re the size of a hippopotamus, but that doesn’t make you Merryweather, it just makes you a clumsy fatass,” Keith retorted.

“Why don’t you step off little bitch,” Sendak said, then threw out a cruel laugh. “I make small guys like you suck my dick for breakfast.”

“I’d prefer an actual hippopotamus,” Keith said before locking arms with Sendak.

Shouts were spiraling around them, calling for a fight, a spectacle, anything to get the other kids out of gym class, while Lance was frantic beside him.

Whistles and bells sounded and Lance tugged at Keith’s arm, “Keithshutthefuckup,” he whisper-yelled into his ear. To Sendak, “He’s new, man, don’t worry about it I’ll make sure he gets that Midol—”

Keith lunged while Sendak threw out a meaty paw of a hand, they were inches from tearing each other apart when another do-gooder grabbed Sendak from behind, and another guy joined him. Pulling him back, several more guys stood between them, for whatever reason deciding to end the fight before it began.

Sendak looked Keith dead in the eye. Keith looked unflinchingly back and imagined—for the briefest moment—punching his fist straight through his teeth.

Sendak shoved the other guys off him, then turned and left, leaving the corridor filled with tension and a loaded silence.

“Principal’s here,” Lance breathed. “Sendak’s an exchange student, a fight could get him kicked out.”

Keith rolled out his shoulders, then turned around and slammed his locker door shut. “Fucking shame.” Keith dug his eyes into Lance. “Why the fuck did you let him get away with that? Why the fuck didn’t you at least— _ say _ something?”

Lace shrugged lamely. “Things are different since you left.” Lance looked him in the eye briefly, and Keith was almost taken aback by the small flare of resentment he thought he saw. 

But then it was gone, and so was Lance.

The hallway was empty, devoid of students who’d left the scene to file into their classrooms. But Keith stayed a while longer, feeling more comfortable in being alone than in a stuffy classroom filled with judging stares and knowing whispers.

Keith wondered what exactly had changed since he’d been gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist songs as always:
> 
> [8 Ball](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3nth7sgHtKs) by Waxahatchee
> 
> [Bata Hotel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fu7gVjArz4w) by Crass
> 
> Quick note: Katelynne isn't Pidge's deadname, otherwise I would've handled it way differently lol! For Colleen, her daughter needs a reminding of who she really is and Pidge wouldn't have it any other way. (Honestly it'd be soooo weird for Colleen to call her Pidge gross mom god it just sounds wrong coming from you ugh).
> 
> Also can I get a shoutout for how ballsey Keith is? What an icon. A legend.


	8. Saturday Night's Alright (For Fighting)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, warnings for: bullying, violence, underage drinking, and false hope :/

“Take off your sh-TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES!” Keith bellowed at the screen, throwing up his hand and making his beer slosh on his hand a little.

“Now find a weapon, find a fucking weapon and hide,” Shiro muttered next to him, putting his empty beer on the ground and grabbing the blanket to gather it around his feet.

“And take off your fucking shoes!” Keith yelled again. He pursed his lips then shook his head. “Why don’t they ever fucking do anything smart?”

Shiro shrugged, removing his attention from the girl ducking under a table to hide from the serial killer in the movie they were watching.

“I don’t know,” he answered, “cause they’re teenagers.”

Keith gave him a mean look. “I’m a fucking teenager.”

“Yeah, and you’re dumb as shit.” Shiro held his breath for a moment before the corner of his mouth betrayed him and turned upward into a grin. Keith glared and he reached out, shoving Shiro’s shoulder roughly, but not angrily.

“It’s probably a fucking family trait,” he muttered in retort and sipped his beer, half-pouting and turning back to the movie. He rolled his eyes and slapped his knee. “Jesus Christ, doesn’t anyone know you can survive like a hundred stab wounds? Why do they always die after getting just like, three?”

“As someone who survived a fucking bomb and lost his arm, eyebrows, and a couple toes, I can testify to that,” Shiro brought his empty bottle back up to clink it against Keith’s in mock salute.

Keith gave him a look. “How many toes?”

“More than you wanna know,” Shiro mumbled and Keith left his question mostly unanswered.

The waters between Shiro and Keith had been getting warmer it seemed. They’d found common ground in being movie talkers, in day-old pizza and beer, in basketball games. Shiro mostly left Keith to his own devices, thinking independence was what the kid wanted, what the kid needed. Give the kid space, leave him plenty of openings, and he’d come around.

That’s what Shiro had been hoping anyway, and his plan was bewilderingly working. That was a first.

Keith took a sip of his drink and cleared his throat. He flicked his eyes to Shiro a moment.

“So do you even have any friends?” Keith asked before quickly taking another drink.

Shiro didn’t feel malice behind the question, so he stopped himself from hurling back a mean retort. He didn’t exactly have the time (nor self-esteem) to meet new folks, and he wouldn’t exactly call the guys at work friends. But Shiro had his crew, his brothers from overseas, and the Holts next door. That was enough to him.

Shiro shrugged. “I have who I need in my life.”

Keith shrugged. “What, no girlfriend, boyfriend either?”

“You see anyone else entering this house?”

“I think I saw a cat leave through the garage side door last night.”

“That motherfucker,” Shiro muttered. That mean asshole like to sleep in his tent gear and shit everywhere. He was even able to move the giant rock Shiro had hoped would keep him out. It just made him meaner and stronger. 

Shiro sighed. “Nah, no lover to speak of.”

“Gross,” said Keith. “Don’t say that.”

“Lover,” Shiro purred. “Luh-verrrr.”

Keith shoved his face and Shiro fought not to laugh. “Why do you wanna know? Worried someone will take my precious time away from you?”

“As if,” Keith snorted, then stared down into his beer. “I just have a friend and I don’t know what to do about him.”

“Do about him?” Shiro scoffed. “Hang out with him, maybe invite him over sometime?” Shiro thought for a moment. “Is he uh, anything like you?”

If Keith was offended it didn’t show. He immediately scoffed and shook his head while a smile played on his lips. “Exact opposite. Smart. Friendly. Kind.” Keith pursed his lips and thought for a minute. “Boisterous.”

“Sounds like a cool guy. How’d you meet him?”

Keith shrugged, almost shyly, “I’ve known him forever, I used to live here and we went to the same school.”

Shiro nodded. “That’s right, that school mentioned you’d been with them before.”

“Yeah, Lance was the only thing keeping me there.”

“Lance?” Shiro said. “Cool name. Cooler than Keith.”

“Fuck you.”

“So you’ve known him forever, what about him? You have a fight or something?” Shiro was pressing his luck, it felt like Keith was finally opening up and it didn’t want to push it.

But apparently the stars aligned, because Keith continued to look down and fidget with the top of his beer bottle before finally saying, “Not a fight. He’s just...different.”

Shiro thought a moment. “We all grow up to be different men. It’s okay if you outgrow each other a little.”

“Maybe,” Keith said, so quietly Shiro almost missed it.

The quiet signaled the churning awkwardness in Shiro’s gut to return so he turned back to the television in time to see a different blond teenager leave a crowd to return to an abandoned hotel for her shawl, all while the killer was after her.

“Jesus Christ, it’s a fucking fire drill, respect the rules! Why isn’t any law enforcement going after her? Unpro-fucking-fessional.” Shiro shook his head and Keith lifted his chin, muttering something about cops not doing their jobs was the only accurate thing about this movie, and Shiro gave it to him.

They didn’t talk more about his friend, but the conversation had given Shiro hope that it could be the start to something based on more than empty beer bottles and curse words thrown at the television.

 

* * *

 

Lance was already waiting at Keith’s locker the next morning. Keith had been ready for a fight. Fuck, he was  _ always  _ ready for a fight. But the way Lance looked as he approached his locker quietly, shoulders lax and arms folded under his chest, face somber and narrow, looking down at his own feet pensively, it took every angry thought out of Keith’s mind.

Even the slightly blurry, far off image of Lance was enough to make him sigh in self-annoyance, then shake his head out and walk a little faster. 

Keith wasn’t stupid though—he kept his face stoic as he reached him. He kept his spine rigid and he left a few feet between them.

And when Lance finally turned his blue eyes toward him, he didn’t buckle and apologize first.

“Dude—” Lance began, and Keith shook out his head. He pushed Lance over to the side a bit and went to open his locker, slowly working out the combination and staring at the peachy colored metal before him. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Keith said, avoiding Lance’s gaze.

“But dude, I’m—”

“I don’t need to hear it,” Keith returned shortly.

“But I’m sor—”

Keith slammed the locker shut. “Lance!” he all but shouted, nearby kids whipped their heads to check them out. “I don’t fucking care. I don’t. You’re—”

Keith had a million things on his mind, but he could feel the stares pummeling his back and his sides and his front, and he didn’t need another rumor going around to only bite him in the ass later. He didn’t want people to talk about him, think about him, anything. He just wanted to be left alone.

He just wanted him and  _ Lance _ to be left alone.

“Look,” he said, briefly peering into Lance’s sympathetic eyes before turning his attention to a wall. “I’ll see you later. For lunch. Same place.” Lance looked at Keith, then he looked to the ground. Keith tried not to bite his lip. “Okay?” he asked softly.

He hoped it didn’t sound like a plead.

Lance gave him a small smile. “Sure thing,” he said, just as softly. Keith couldn’t entirely stop the relieved smile that came out. “I’ll just see you then.”

“Yeah,” Keith said. He let out a short cough, unable to think of anything more to say, and Lance took that as a cue to leave.

“Hey Lance,” Keith called as he walked away. Lance turned around, neck twisting and eyes blinking once. “You’re still a fucking dick,” Keith said.

Lance paused, then flashed him a bright smile. “Yeah, and you’re still a shithead.”

“Loser!” Keith called out. 

“Skank!” Lance called back.

Keith smiled all the way to class.

They ate lunch together, talked about nothing mostly. Lance entirely avoided the topic of where Keith had been, but he did pester him with a thousand questions about the infamous drive.

“I mean how fast were you going? How many cars did you hit? Did you shit yourself? I would’ve shit myself,” Lance said, leaning back on his elbows. He was sitting on the table, leaning his long neck back and letting the sun turn him a shade browner.

Keith grinned. “Like that’s anything new for you.”

Lance turned to look at him, then slid his aviators down to look Keith in the eye. “You know, you’re a lot sharper than you used to be. Who the hell has been teaching you how to throw salt?”

Keith shrugged, becoming uncomfortable. It was awkward thinking about it, how he taught himself to be clever thinking about what Imaginary Lance would say. Lance was his best friend, they were close, but Keith still wanted to keep him at a distance. 

After all, what would Lance say if he knew what Keith had thought about him? That imagining Lance beside him was the only thing that kept him sane during that year of literal torture and abuse?

He’d probably run screaming in the other direction.

So instead, Keith reached out and grabbed Lance’s sunglasses and put them over his own eyes “No one really. I’m just smarter than you remember.”

Lance scoffed. “Right. And I’m Frank Ocean.”

“You fucking wish,” Keith scoffed. 

“My fucking point.”

“Hey little fairy,” came a familiar voice, “Oh, and his little bitch.”

Keith didn't bother standing. “Call me a bitch all you want it doesn't change the fact you're a total fucking asshole who smells like shit.”

Beside him Lance was turning purple. He stood abruptly, jumping off the table and smoothing out his hair and jacket. “Don't mind him Sendak, he's got issues at home,” Lance said, glaring at Keith from the side. Keith rolled his eyes and leaned back against the table. Lance was always trying to impress, where Keith never gave a flying fuck. Neither resented the other for it. 

Sendak gave Keith another crude once over. Keith made sure to stick out his middle finger as straight and as high as it would go while making a loud fart noise with his mouth. 

Sendak looked at him with distaste before gifting an unsettling grin on Lance. Keith's eyes narrowed. 

“Never mind that. Am I still seeing you later? You know where.”

Keith had a bad feeling about this. And as someone who'd been on both ends of a bad situation before, all his nerves were on fire telling him this was a losing hand. 

“Oh definitely,” Lance said, flashing Sendak a confident grin. “Wouldn't miss it.” 

“Good,” Sendak said reaching forward and brushing some imaginary lint of Lance’s shoulder. “And remember only cowards are late. If you're not on time just forget the whole thing.”

“Don't be late,” Lance repeated, “got it.”

“Bye bye,” Sendak said, waving lightly and dutifully ignoring Keith's presence. Once far enough away, a familiar slack came back to Lance’s shoulders. He sighed and brought himself back to the table, heavily laying down onto it. 

Keith raised an eyebrow. “What the fuck was that.”

Lance sighed. “You know how you don't wanna tell me what the fuck happened in District Four?”

Keith said nothing and Lance took it as a comment of its own. “Don't fucking ask me about this.”

So Keith didn't. 

 

* * *

 

Shiro bent over the red bike, assessing it carefully. The only thing it didn’t need replaced was the framework, but otherwise, he’d need to find spare parts for just about everything in order to make it breathe again.

Shiro wiped a greasy hand over his sweaty forehead and began to work.

Since he didn’t have a lot of time to spend working on his after his shift, what with caring for a kid and all now, he’d decided to try and fix it up piece by piece during his lunch hour. He didn’t really mind it, since an idea had bloomed to fruition in his mind and prodded at him with thick thorns until he’d picked up his toolbox and got to work.

He wasn’t willing to voice his idea out loud et, not wanting to jinx it, so he simply asked Cirac if he’d take out whatever the parts and bike cost from his paycheck, and left it at that.

The heat of the day leaked into the bike, burning his fingers not enough to hurt but enough to slightly numb them. He held up the side of the bike with his shoulder as he messed around with the gears a little bit, poking around and seeing what needed replaced, what needed just a little greasing up.

If he put in the time, he could have the bike finished up in a couple months, maybe less. He felt his heart lighten and he didn’t notice the smile on his face, even if his coworkers around him did.

They wondered what could’ve cleared his face so much in the last week. What could make that sad boy smile again? What could make anyone who’d felt such a weight of the world’s burden rise from his knees to his feet? They wondered what he was thinking.

Shiro had been thinking: this old beat up ride might clean up good for a birthday present for someone who needed it.

 

* * *

 

Keith never had the intention of breaking that unspoken promise to Lance. Lance had asked him to keep the fuck out of it and so he would. 

He'd intended to. 

But a forgotten book in a classroom accompanied by a nice long shit in the teachers’ restrooms —the door was unlocked, it was a golden opportunity no one would miss, and he knew Lance would be proud the next day so fuck yeah he did it-—made him take the roundabout way home. He'd already wasted enough time, might as well make an afternoon of it and take the long way home. 

He was crossing the parking lot of the nearest church, the one that bribed kids with smoothies and cookies every Friday after school, when he heard a few telltale grunts. 

Keith sighed, almost with a sarcastic kind of irritation. Trouble followed him everywhere, he was sure of it. Somewhere hiding in the shadows was the devil himself crowing and cackling as he rearranged the world just so Keith could suffer an inch more.

Keith wasn't being fucking dramatic. It wasn't dramatic if it was true. 

He ignored it for a few more steps before a particularly pained squeal startled him. It washed his insides with ice and froze him solid. He knew that noise, the sound of someone trying to stifle their pain and cries, someone trying to stay unnoticed. 

It was the sickest sound he knew, and the only one he could never ignore.

He dropped his books to the ground and slid toward the bushes, trying to hide and keep his presence unknown for as long as possible. He needed to see what he was dealing with before he went into a rage and caused trouble. The other day with Lance taught him that, and Keith was nothing if not a sharp learner. 

Keith was shocked into stillness.

Backpacks were strewn about, littering the corner of the building’s side as several guys encircled an inward corner of the church, surrounding their prey. The first thing Keith noticed was that fucktard Sendak’s giant head in the middle of the group, pounding away into the smaller kid in front of him and against the wall.

Keith saw the skinny legs peeking out from the bottom attached to a pair of skinny ankles and big feet.

Big feet that wore Lance’s trademark black Puma sneakers.

Keith tore out of the bushes, red painting his vision while he grabbed the nearest dude and sucker punched him in the dick. He went down faster than a bullet and Keith threw out his arm and clocked another guy straight in the gut. 

Keith’s fist sank in there and it took too long to pull out, he could hear the wind rippling around him with shock as the other guys quickly caught on to Keith’s ambush.

A fist careened straight for his jaw and Keith ducked, bending down over the guy who still had Keith’s fist in his belly. Keith then pushed him aside when the punch went awry and launched himself toward the guy who’d tried to land him.

He threw him into the wall and Keith smiled when he heard a loud smack that told him the guy had knocked his head against the stone wall. Keith punched him in the throat and his grin grew wider when the gag that came out sounded bloody.

Keith spun around while his latest victim dropped to the cement but the other two guys were running.

All that was left was Sendak, staring straight at him with dark eyes and a mean snarl that cut over his lips.

Before Keith could land on him Sendak sent one last terrible punch across Lance’s face. Lance’s cheek struck the side of the building and he coughed. Blood and spittle dripped down his chin and he could barely keep himself standing.

Instead he leaned against the wall heavily while Keith grabbed his knife from his back pocket and flipped it open. He pointed it directly at Sendak.

“You have three seconds before I kill you,” Keith said.

Sendak clenched his fists but wasted no time. One fighter to another, he knew Keith wasn’t bluffing. He spat at Keith’s shoes and turned away, gesturing to the other guys who’d recovered from Keith’s blows to follow him. He walked slowly and without any trace of guilt or shame.

No, without any trace of  _ conscience _ .

Keith folded his knife back up and slid it back into its place before reaching out to Lance.

“Don’t touch me!” Lance said, though it was slurred. His tongue was swollen, probably. Probably he’d bitten it during the fight.

Keith scoffed aloud. Fight, no. It’d been a total beating, Lance hadn’t even been able to fight back.

“What the fuck just happened?” Keith demanded, finally dropping his hand when it was clear Lance wouldn’t take it.

Lance cradled his cheek and glared at Keith with one eye. The other was turning blue and was swollen shut already.

“None of your—” Lance paused to spit blood onto the ground. It ended up on his pants. He cringed, and Keith knew he was thinking about what his mom would say. “— _ fucking _ business,” he said, though it took some work with his injured tongue.

“You were  _ letting _ them beat you Lance,” Keith accused, with a sinking feeling in his gut. “I fucking taught you how to throw a punch back in the fifth grade and your hands are clean as shit. What the  _ fuck _ is going on you’d let them pull this shit?”

“You’ve been gone!” Lance shouted, but it sounded shrill, and Lance looked every bit a 16-year-old child and not a 16-year-old man. “I look out for myself now!”

“You call this—” Keith spat, pointing to Lance’s bloodied and torn form, “—looking out for yourself?!”

“They were gonna do it for me! One last beating and they’d take me into their group!”

Keith froze. His arms dropped and weighed a thousand tons at his side. His throat was dry and he could feel the sweat dripping slowly down his spine.

Before him, Lance cowered and thick tears fell down his face, mixing with dirt and snot and spit, looking as lonely as Keith had felt in that trailer.

Lance had been going through an initiation.

“I didn’t know you’d come back,” Lance whispered.

“But I’m here,” Keith said swallowing over the lump in his throat. “I’m here  _ now _ .”

Lance’s eyes looked up with an anger Keith had never had directed at him before. There was fear, anger, and a little hatred in that glare, and it made Keith’s hair stand on the back of his neck.

“A whole heap of good that does me,” Lance said. Without another word, he picked up his own bag and slowly brought it over his shoulder. He continued to clutch at his cheek, though the blood leaked through his fingers to drop into his shirt.

Keith watched him walk away.

He knew the look of a man who knew his pain was far from over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Saturday Night's Alright (For Fighting)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=26wEWSUUsUc) by Elton John
> 
> [Dig](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=18XtuVPW5eI) by Perfect Pussy


End file.
